


The Shadow of the Blackbird

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 69, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Animal Death, Body Horror, Bottom Hannibal, Bottom Will, Cannibalism, Dismemberment, Frottage, Gore, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter murder nanny, Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham - Freeform, Hannigram - Freeform, Horror and Suspense, Kisses, M/M, Magical Realism, Marshall Verger, Mostly Birds, Murder, Oral Sex, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Past Will Graham/OC, Penetrative Sex, Scotland Yard Consultant Will, Sex, So So Many Birds, Suggestive dough kneading, TW: Hallucinations, TW: Illness, They Flip!, Thunder and Lightning, Tobias Budge original edgelord, Top Hannibal, Top Will, Will Finds Out, background Margot/Alana, encephalitis, is this a Mary Poppins AU? Why yes it is, manual sex, original child character - Freeform, tw: alcohol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23503909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/printersdeadly/pseuds/printersdeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: In Edwardian London, single father Will Graham helps Scotland Yard solve murders most foul. At home, he finds himself in need of a governess for his daughter...for the sixth time. Upon advertising the position, he finds a most unusual applicant at his door, umbrella in hand - Doctor Hannibal Lecter.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 262
Kudos: 633





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this one has been a long time coming! This is the promised Scary Poppins AU, chock full of...well...fewer spoonfuls of sugar and more murders. It's a complete work, and we'll be posting the whole thing chapter by chapter over the next week or so. A lot of blood, sweat, and tears went into this one so we're hoping you all love it as much as we do! Note, some of the tags don't come in right away so if you have any questions, please let us know.
> 
> xo  
> L & Deadly

The wind is howling and low clouds smother the skyline, extinguishing the last of the evening light and casting hazy grey mist as rain starts to fall over London. A gleaming Ford Model T comes to a sputtering stop outside of a tall, white townhouse, and from beneath the canopy, Will Graham emerges, opening his umbrella against the autumn drizzle.

"Thank you, Jack," he throws over his shoulder, taking another second to admire the way the car glitters in the street lamps. He watches it roar away, white wheels kicking up dirty street water, rumbling over the cobbles, and shakes his head to himself: his associate Jack Crawford, keen detective and driving wind in Will’s professional sails, has an unparalleled love for advancements. The car is a showy indulgence, unnecessary and tasteless – Will and Jack frequently disagree on the subject of taste – but it has its perks.

Only when it rounds the corner, headlights like a knife edge through the gloaming, does Will gather himself, shaking off the clinging hands of the dead on his doorstep. His eyes travel over the quiet neighborhood, gas lamps haloed with wet light, crows gathering in the naked trees over the adjacent park. A fittingly miserable night, he notes to himself, and goes to open the front door.

His hand falters when he catches sight of something from the corner of his eye - and then he grips the catch tightly as the figure becomes clearer.

Rain sluices from her wet clothes and hair, her vacant eyes fixed on Will. Her hands cover her rounded belly, expression serene, but Will knows this story - he saw it only hours before. Still, he’s as rapt as he was in the industrial warehouse by the docks, watching the strange writhing under her hands become uncontainable. Her head falls back, her hands open, as the jagged seam across her belly splits and the bloody array of trapped birds burst forth.

They flock Will, spattering him with blood and matter, beaks and claws snatching at his raised hands - but then they’re gone, as quick as they appeared. Slowly, Will peers from behind his hands. A sob lodges in the back of his throat.

He’s alone. Nothing on their quiet street but the rain, washing away his walking nightmares. He knows it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, showing him again so he can _see_. Like the poor girl in the warehouse isn’t burned into his brain already.

Of course, he acknowledges to himself as he finally fumbles the key into the lock and pushes it open with shaking hands, the woman in the warehouse did not wear the face of his daughter’s dead mother.

In the rosy warmth, he comes face to face with his daughter’s governess, Miss Shaw, waiting in her coat and gloves, umbrella under her arm and bags at her feet. He regards her for a second, pushing away the rancid smell of his fear, and can’t even find the energy to switch on his best look of hurt surprise.

"Miss Shaw? Is something the matter? Where's Lotte?"

"Charlotte is in her room," she replies crisply, "I'm sorry, Detective Graham, but I'm afraid I can no longer be of use to you..."

It doesn't stop there. Will has heard this speech five times before. _An exceptionally bright girl but with a contempt for me that cannot be bridged by all the patience and understanding in the world,_ and variations therein. He listens, nods, and does not bother with his corresponding formalities - just opens the door up and lets the wind howl in.

"Very well, Miss Shaw. You may go."

She stares at him for a moment, like she’d expected more. Will doesn’t have it in him; he’s exhausted, and traumatised, and he can’t stop _seeing_ the dead woman.

Finally, with a little tut, Miss Shaw gathers her things and goes out into the rain. Will sighs, looking around the warmly lit foyer.

"Missus Cheswick? I’m home."

When the door is closed, he rubs the bridge of his nose between his fingers before stripping off his coat, handing it off to his housekeeper as she appears with a murmur of thanks, before he starts up the stairs to deposit the afternoon’s files in his study. He does not acknowledge her knowing sigh behind him.

The house is gloomy as the evening drops lower, and he stops to turn on the lamps as he leaves the study, the hiss and hum of them a comforting din. The dead woman seems far away, like this.

"Titch, where are you?" he says softly, rapping at the nursery door before opening it and slipping inside. She is where he expects her to be - curled in the window seat with a blanket and a stack of books. She looks up at him mournfully, shoulders slumped and eyes not quite meeting his. Will stands beside her, observing the title of her book before he kneels down to look at her, all too aware of her unhappiness radiating. "Lotte," he says softly, "are you all right?"

"I was very impolite to Miss Shaw, Father."

"I'm not interested in that. You're not in trouble. I just want to know what it is that is troubling _you_. This... this is the fifth governess you have driven off and I can't work out the reason why."

Lotte points at a high shelf. "She took my books away, and put them up there."

"Is that because she wanted you to pay attention to something else?" Slightly knowing: she is willful, he knows.

"Yes, but - then she said they weren't appropriate for my station," Lotte frowns, tone completely offended. "And I heard her tell Cook that I was _strange_."

Will frowns at that, and touches her shoulder very gently. Privately, he makes note to have words with Cook about that. "People don’t always know how to respond to people like us, sweetheart, but you’re not strange. I say good riddance to her, don’t you?"

"Yes, she smelt like cabbage," Lotte mutters, startling a laugh out of Will.

"She did smell a little like cabbage."

The expression she makes reminds him viscerally of himself. He considers, and Lotte perks up a bit, apparently sensing opportunity.

"Maybe Miss Bloom -"

"Miss Bloom is already employed, and under quite enough strain teaching Marshall Verger, you know that." Alana is a childhood friend of Will’s, and has always had time for Charlotte, but unfortunately she has rather more for resident heiress to the Verger Slaughterhouse firm, Margot. "I’m sorry, Lotte. I will find you someone."

"Father, I'm afraid it will have to be an unusual someone," she says solemnly.

It makes him smile, to hear her be so grown up. "Yes, you might be right." He finally opens his arms, and she rockets off the bench and into them, not grown up at all. Feeling her small sturdiness is as comforting as anything, and he resents himself for using her for such when she is in distress. It makes him hold her tighter.

"Who would you want?" he asks softly. "What qualities would you want?"

"You know," she scolds gently. "I want to learn Latin and Greek and History and Art and - Science, Father, Science. And I want someone – gentle, and kind, and funny. Someone who doesn’t _scold_ me."

"Miss Shaw said she would teach you Latin, didn't she?"

"She never did. I waited so long, and I learned all the French she said I had to before she would start."

Will sighs against her hair when she clings tighter at his attempted disengaging. With a last look around the room, he scoops her up, blanket and book and all, and starts for the drawing room. "I _will_ find you a teacher sufficient in Latin and the Sciences, Lotte. Someone who will adjust to your needs, not press you into a mould, but you need to give them opportunity to get used to you, as well."

He lets his unquiet look be hidden against the crown of her head. All he wants for his brilliant girl is the opportunity to be herself.

She goes to the fire in his study when he sets her down, staying away from his desk - his work is not appropriate for her eyes - and settling herself down. "Someone who lets me read, too."

" _I_ let you read." He gives her a fond once over. "But I can stipulate a reading break in the afternoon."

Lotte only nods, having clearly already distracted herself once more. Satisfied as he will get tonight, Will sits down at his desk, and then pauses: he should go and speak to the cook about having one less for dinner. No more awkward conversation with the governess for a few days at least. Missus Cheswick, at least, is happy to eat in the kitchen, though he’s never insisted the staff eat separately. Will fancies she finds the two of them rather difficult to contend with.

He tells Lotte he will return shortly, and walks quickly through the hall toward the back of the house. Cook will not like this, Will knows. He seems to scandalise most of the staff he manages to keep, merely by his insistence on having as few as possible.

True enough, Missus Henderson glares at him in open disapproval.

"Another one," she repeats, in a scolding tone.

"Yes well, I’ll not have anyone calling my daughter _strange,_ " he snaps. That mollifies her, but the look she gives him as she goes back to the stove is ugly. He leaves without further preamble, trying to ignore the fact he’s just invited someone to spit in his dinner.

"Might improve it," he mutters to himself, and tries to throttle the inappropriate smile that rises at the thought. Truly, he's regarded as a most unfit father and employer. Allowing Miss Bloom to leave her suffrage pamphlets here for the staff may have been his first misstep. He doesn't mind. He's used to being disapproved of.

He should visit Alana, actually, enquire about anyone looking for the governess position before he puts it in the paper. He sighs and resolves himself to call on Lady Verger tomorrow morning. It's the only proper way to enquire. Sometimes he wonders if Alana Bloom's suffragism goes quite far enough.

He only hopes Lotte is imbued with as much strength when she grows up. He is trying so very hard to let her.

*

Dinner is a quiet affair, father and daughter both lost in their usual musing, comfortable in their silence. Will sometimes lets Cook take her a tray in the nursery as is traditional (he has been repeatedly and pointedly assured), but not tonight, without Miss Shaw. Besides, he prefers her to eat with him. They're a family. A very small one, but a family nonetheless.

He smiles at the thought, watching her pick at her dinner: Cook is constantly nagging both of them for having such terrible eating habits. It is not difficult to mark their resemblance, in any way. Will considers his little twin, her curls tumbling loose from her braids and her difficult little blue eyes directed away from anyone else’s, and hopes she will not turn out to be _too_ like him in character.

After dinner, he takes her to bed - though has no doubt she will stay up far too late reading - before he returns to his study to bed down himself with reading of an entirely less pleasant nature.

His work for Jack Crawford takes him from death to death, tiptoeing from one to the other like the grim reaper itself, gathering the secrets of those who lie still and pale at his feet. Sometimes it’s a comfort to him, laying them to rest, but there are nights it keeps him up, nights he’s gripped by cold hands and throttled by the horror.

Tonight he manages to at least catch himself falling asleep before he tumbles head first into stiff necks and nightmares. He tucks his folder under his arm and takes it to bed with him, blinking away sleep so that he might continue studying the grisly crime scene details by the flickering light of his bedside lamp, the sound of the rain against his window soothing.

There’s a strange pattern of kills emerging in London, it seems. Something dark has gripped the city in a way it hasn’t for nearly forty years, and Will tastes the terror in the streets whenever the sun is down. Birds nesting in a dead woman’s torso seems the least of it.

Scotland Yard will have need of him tomorrow, as usual. He'd kiss it all goodbye if he could. But where would he go? What would he do? This is his home. He has no other skills. He replays the same argument he has with himself every few weeks over as he falls asleep, the reports scattered on the sheets beside him. With any luck, when Missus Cheswick comes in to light the fire in the morning, she won’t look at them too closely.

*

In his dreams, he stands alone in the woods, snow drifts piled around his ankles, fat flakes falling around him. His breath mists out in clouds, icicles in his lungs. The branches of the trees around him are thorny black against the snow-fattened sky, and as he peers, he sees several crows alight amongst the branches.

More birds follow, not just crows but blackbirds and starlings, rooks and jays. They call, first just a few and then en masse, and the growing cacophony fills Will with the sudden fear that someone will _hear_.

Behind him, he hears the fluttering of wings, and when he turns a great raven examines him from the splintered branch of a fallen tree, its eyes black as void. Another joins it, and then another, crouching together, and then all at once the rest of the birds join in a swarming flock.

Will watches with horror as they start to take on a swirling column, compressing before his eyes into the familiar form of a human figure. Made entirely of shifting wings and cawing beaks, it reaches out to Will. He takes a few rushed, terrified steps back in the snow, stumbles, and falls.

The birds descend.

*

Margot Verger doesn't seem all that surprised to see him when he calls around the next afternoon after sharing the carriage with Missus Cheswick and Lotte en route to her piano lesson. Then again, she never seems to be surprised by much - Will can relate to that.

"Forgive the intrusion," he says softly, when she greets him in her immaculate reception room, one of the more ornate in her stately townhouse. "I appear to have found myself in want of a governess, yet again."

"How many is that now, Will? Four?"

"Five," he corrects, "I imagine they'll have enough to form a union soon."

She laughs, as he intended, voice halting and musical. Nevertheless, they maintain the same careful distance from one another that they always do. "Then you aren't really here to see me, are you?"

"Well, not just you." He tries not to acknowledge his extreme embarrassment at having to ask: "I was wondering if I could possibly take you up on your offer of Lotte sitting in with Marshall of an afternoon while I attempt to find the sixth union member."

"You know Alana will be delighted to have her visit."

"You truly don't mind? I understand it's not - proper."

Margot shrugs gracefully. "You know how I feel about that, Will."

Yes. Neither of them have ever truly been proponents of propriety, not after what they've been through together. This house and what they'd done here still features in certain of his nightmares - hers and Alana Bloom's as well, he's sure - but he's very glad that he knows her, in the end.

The matter settled, Margot has one of her staff summon Miss Bloom - Alana, as Margot so very scandalously calls her - from the schoolroom. Then she calls for a tea tray. Will just watches, wishing he could be half as self-assured. He brushes himself down a bit before Alana appears, sweetly striking in burgundy red.

"Well, if it isn't Mister Graham," she says, offering him a hand. He bends to kiss it gently.

"Miss Bloom. I've come to ask a favour, I'm afraid."

"You know I'm at your service."

"I was wondering if you had any recommendations for a new governess." He imagines his expression says it all.

"Again," she murmurs. "Well. We shall have to work a bit harder, won't we?"

"Lotte is quite concerned that there is not enough science in the education system."

"That does sound like Lotte." He can tell Alana is suppressing a smile.

"I'm afraid I'm going to need someone quite unorthodox. I'll call about an advert in the paper but naturally I'd prefer someone you vouched for."

"Naturally. I'll have to think on it, Will."

"I'd be much obliged if you did. Thank you, Alana. And - Lady Verger has suggested Lotte might be permitted to spend a couple of days here this week with Marshall, just until I've secured Miss Shaw's replacement."

"You know I love spending time with her. If Mar - Lady Verger suggested it..."

Will glances between them, and nods. "She offered last time, but, ah - I held off. This time I shall just have to hope she wasn't merely being kind."

Margot just smiles, tone dry. "I seldom am."

They share a glance. Will smiles at his hands, and then nods. "Thank you very much for your time then, ladies."

"Bring Lotte by tomorrow, Will," Alana replies.

He bows again, and gratefully takes his leave of them. He is fortunate in his friends, the very few he has.

Now he must go back to Lotte, who has been left with her piano teacher while Missus Cheswick goes to the market, despite entirely loathing him. But Mister Budge is an excellent teacher, highly spoken of despite his somewhat brisk manner. Will hasn't yet met him - he is only recently appointed to replace the last, like all Lotte's teachers - and he hopes to do so today. The last governess could not play, something Will was assured was a sackable offence by Margot – but Lotte had seemed keen on her.

He makes his way from the stately Verger townhouse to the street where Budge's music shop is located, quite near to the opera house. There is a bell over the door but he muffles it with a gloved hand when he steps in, not wanting to distract his daughter: it's not quite past the hour yet, she has ten minutes.

She sounds better than expected for someone with her relative inexperience. Will listens with a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth to the tune, turning his top hat uneasily in his hands. He waits until her lesson is almost over and then goes to the open parlor door. Budge, he notices, looks up at the movement and not at his quiet knock. He gives Will a tight smile.

"You must be the enigmatic Mister Graham, a pleasure to make your acquaintance finally."

Will ignores the blatant insult in favour of shaking his hand with his gloves still on. "Likewise. Miss Shaw was quite complimentary, I have been anxious to visit Lotte and hear for myself, I only apologise it wasn’t sooner."

"She's doing well, when she applies herself." He glances at Lotte, who is gathering her music and putting them neatly into her book bag. Thankfully her expression isn't openly resentful. Will's is somewhat less guarded.

"I would like her to pursue piano out of enjoyment and not obligation, her skill level is of no concern to me at the age of eight," he says, stiffly.

Budge regards him expressionlessly. "Of course," he defers.

"Miss Shaw is no longer with us and as such, I will bring her again next week," Will says. "Lotte, are you ready?"

"Yes, Father." She comes to take his hand, directing a little curtsy toward Mister Budge. "Thank you, sir."

"Miss Graham." He nods and moves to open the door for them.

Will can't explain the feeling he gets, meeting Mister Budge's dark eyes for a fleeting moment in the doorway. He bows his own chin in response instead, averting his gaze. They head out onto the street, and Will hails a carriage.

Lotte is clinging rather tightly. Will looks down at her, concerned. He ushers her gently into the carriage.

"Sweetheart," he says once they're moving, "is something the matter?"

"No, Father," she says softly, "it's nothing." She smiles up at him then. "I'm happy to be spending the afternoon with you."

"And I you. I was thinking we might go to the park."

"Truly? You don’t have to go back to work?"

"Truly."

The expression on Charlotte's face isn't for the crowds of people - not Will's favourite thing either - but simply for being with him, being able to walk and see the animals and the fountain. On the rare occasions that Will flouts his regimen to spend the day with her in this manner, they sometimes feed squirrels. He smiles out of the window, grateful to have pleased her. Whether the right way to parent or not, he so often finds himself simply seeking to make her smile. Which makes him different than every other parent he knows, though arguably not the best. He has a lot to learn, even after all this time. Especially, he thinks bitterly, about governesses.

Schooling his expression, he helps Lotte out of the carriage at the park. She's quickly tugging him by the hand to view a small flock of ducks. Will watches her with delight; gives her a couple of pennies to buy some seeds from a vendor nearby. It's a chilly day, and the park is bustling. Will lets his awareness of the other patrons bleed into the back of his mind. He just watches Lotte, her little hands like pale flowers, her curls tossed carelessly over one shoulder. Her little blue coat - a gift from Margot, who had been horrified at the black he'd had her in - makes her look even more soft and small.

No sign of the immense stubbornness right now, of course. Except for when it comes to rationing the ducks. Will smiles to hear her scold them. He'd like to get her a dog, something to give her a routine and love her - but he's not sure it'd be fair on the dog when he keeps such odd hours. Perhaps once a new governess is installed, one who stays more than a year.

With preliminary proceedings seeding in his mind, he focuses instead on memorising every moment of here and now - Lotte, and the weak Autumn sunshine, and their togetherness.


	2. Chapter 2

Lotte goes off to lessons with Miss Bloom the next day, giving Will time to put together an advertisement from the list of ideal governess properties she has given him in her neat, cursive handwriting. He scans over the exercise book page fondly, able to see the precise moment that her list slips from realistic qualities ( _Philosophical knowledge, Multilingualism,_ both spelled perfectly) to things to make him laugh ( _Field trips every Wednesday, Well dressed, Not boring, Likes dogs)_.

He sits down at his desk, loads his typewriter, and starts to rattle out an advert request.

*

The responses roll in, and Will finds himself glad to have snatched time with Lotte earlier in the week when he ends up resorting to using the weekend to host interviews for eligible candidates. He's exhausted by the whole process even after the first - an anxious young woman whose eyes grew wider and wider with every word he said - and he takes five hard-earned minutes to wish Alana wasn't…

But she is. He stands, moving to the fire, lit by Missus Cheswick this morning to ward off the frosty chill. He stares into the flames and wishes vehemently that he could find someone good, someone Lotte would really click with. Someone other than him. He watches the sparks crackle and pop amidst the amber veined coals, and then sighs, wandering to the desk to select the list she gave him again. In a fit of childish whimsy, he folds the list up into a paper plane, kisses it on the nose, and sends it soaring into the flames in a smooth swipe. He’s still perplexed over the impulse as he watches the flames curl it into ash.

"Mister Graham, your next appointment is here," Missus Cheswick tells him at the door. He dusts himself down and pours himself a fresh cup of tea.

"Thank you Missus C, please, send her in."

This will all be worth it in the end.

*

He tries to bear that in mind over the following days, when his need to find her a suitable teacher sits him in interview after interview, in the evenings now that the weekend wasn’t enough to see them right. Some are obviously unsuitable from the offing. Some are... simply sufficient. Some are good, but none of them are _right_.

When he goes to pick Lotte up that afternoon, Margot and Alana listen sympathetically as he rattles off all the candidates he has sent rejection letters to, standing close together in the large, bright schoolroom, a distance from where Lotte and Marshall are playing with what looks like a very expensive zoetrope machine.

"I'm getting to the end of my list," he tells them, resigned.

"Do you at least have a candidate in mind?" Alana asks.

"Maybe," Will lies. He hasn't met anyone who he'd hire out of anything but desperation. Luckily, Margot seems to be tolerating his intrusion into her family circle with good humour. "I just have a few more interviews tomorrow," he promises her, "and then I'll make a final decision."

"I actually do know of someone else," Alana says, almost hesitantly, her tone allowing Will to surmise that the someone she has in mind will probably not fit the bill. "Someone I worked with briefly when I was first starting out."

"Pray tell?"

"Her name is Edith Jameson, she’s been recently released from her current contract as the family are migrating to France, but she’s been with them for many years as far as I know."

Will considers, then regards her. "You think she’s good."

"I know she’s good. Educated and accommodating, sharp as they come – she’s not a wallflower, either. Older."

"Older means less amenable to adapting to Charlotte’s needs."

"I don’t think you’d find that with Edith, she specialises in…" she stops herself, and Will allows all the possibilities of what that pause could mean before he reins in his defensiveness.

"Say it, it’s all right."

"In children who need special attention," Alana concludes, "not that I’m saying –"

"I know what you’re saying." He means it. No one could discount Charlotte’s intellectual acuity, but she certainly finds socialising and following cues just as difficult as he always has.

"I considered her for Marshall way back when," Margot puts in, easily, "but Alana pipped her to the post."

Her eyes flick over her in open appreciation, sincere and suggestive at once even in her monotone. Will averts his gaze quickly, straightening his waistcoat.

"Well then, I’d love to meet her," he says, without joy.

"I’ll send her a message immediately, and let you know," Alana says warmly. Her cheeks are a bit pink when Will glances at the lower half of her face with his own smile, before he raises his chin at Lotte, who immediately abandons Marshall with barely a word of goodbye.

"Thank you so much, and you, Margot. I shall send her with Missus Cheswick tomorrow if that’s all right?"

"Certainly, Will. Good evening, Charlotte."

"Good evening Lady Verger. Miss Bloom." She keeps her eyes on Will’s waistcoat, attention held for a moment by his watch chain. He smiles down at her, giving her a second, and then leads her out of the school room.

"Good luck with the rest of your interviews," he hears Alana say, and catches her eye over his shoulder as he goes.

*

He can't help but think she's jinxed him by the time his penultimate appointment comes around. He eases himself into his desk chair with a bitten back sigh: this has been the worst day by far, one no-show and two time wasters.

He's just crossed off the last and is taking a short break whilst waiting for the next, Edith Jameson, who had sent him a very formal letter expressing her interest in the position just a day after Alana had wrote her. She seems an entirely sensible option on paper, currently living in the West End and happy to adhere to Will’s request for a trial before any final decisions are made. Even so, there’s a lingering doubt in his mind; something about the briskness of her correspondence, a particular flavour of uncertainty that has a hint of acid to it when he thinks too long.

The night has long since drawn in by now, and raindrops patter gently on the glass of Will’s study windows, a fine fog dispersing the lights of the street lamps outside. Will takes his spectacles off and rubs his face; puts them back on and checks his reflection in the mirror over the fire while he waits.

He looks tired, he notices, and pale. He runs the tips of his fingers through his short beard and tries to push back his hair, unstyled and unruly, the curls undeterred by such a thing as gravity. His collar is curled, tie askance. With a sigh, he folds his collar up and tries to make it behave.

"Who wouldn’t want to work for this?" he asks the room at large, voice dry.

The clock on the mantelpiece reads seven forty-two, and when he’s somewhat tidy he checks that against his own pocket watch for verification, surprised: Edith Jameson is late.

Turning with a sigh, Will does an agitated lap of the room, fidgeting with his cuffs and tie, feeling trapped in his clothes. The rain is worsening outside, and when he stops to look out the latticed window his gaze is snared by the ferocity with which it beats down, curtains of nails from a black rust sky. He frowns, concentrating hard. More than once, he thinks he sees flickers of light, muffled in the dark cloud: smothered lightning. It casts a strange plum glow to the skyline, eerie for the hour, more like predawn than twilight.

All of a sudden, Will is incredibly aware of the silence, even the clocks subdued. There’s nothing from within the house, just the rain and the distant growl of thunder. He’s gripped by it, as if it presses against his back, holding him against the window. The thunder drums louder in the distance, curling under and then expanding into a boom again. Will watches for the lightning, counting under his breath, and when it flashes overhead a corresponding guncrack of noise and a spray of shattering glass sends him flying back. He claps his hands over his ears and eyes, crouched down by his desk fearing further explosions, but when only silence presses back in, he uncurls.

Nothing. No Lotte or Missus Cheswick running to see what the commotion was, no remark on the storm. As if no one else heard. Panting, Will rises to his feet, dusting glass off himself and taking stock of the window. It’s not entirely shattered, a hole with a spiderweb of cracks punched through one of the diamonds as if by a fist. Will’s breath and panic rattles his body as he looks at the ground for the source – maybe a rock, one of the neighbourhood children…

His eyes find black, petrol-gloss feathers, and his frown deepens. The blackbird is certainly dead, crumpled on the floor and entirely still, little body still compacted in imaginary flight: petrified into blind panic by the storm. Some of the fear dissipates, grateful for the opportunity to snag onto this thin thread of explanation, and Will stoops to pick the bird up in his handkerchief, cradling it in two hands. He’s struck by the rain-sodden feathers, the blackest black he’s seen, striking against his pale fingers. A dark jeweled eye looks up at him, unseeing, ringed by yellow lid. Shuddering out a breath, Will gently closes it over, and wraps the little body up entirely.

"Missus Cheswick," he calls out the door, "please fetch a broom, and something to patch the window. There’s been a mishap."

He hears her distant, confused affirmation, but the ringing of the door sidetracks her and Will sets the bird on the desk in a hurry as he starts to use the pan and brush from the fire iron set to clear up the worst of the mess. Edith Jameson will think him quite mad.

From down the stairs, he hears Lotte’s voice, and a few corresponding back and forths; the usual distant shuffling of someone having their coat taken.

As he listens, he realises Lotte is still talking, her little voice growing with clarity as she approaches, soft and musical: she must have offered to bring Miss Jameson upstairs, which is altogether a good sign.

Struck by the fear that she will think Lotte obnoxious even so, Will bolts up out of his chair and to the door, thoughts of silence and careless birds momentarily forgotten. He pauses in the doorway, hand going to the jamb for balance as he stops short.

It's not Edith Jameson but a man following Lotte and the housekeeper, well-dressed and aged anywhere between mid and late thirties, if Will had to guess. His dark slicked back hair gives his noble features a somewhat severe set to them, but his eyes and mouth are softly shaped, everything about him clean and clipped. He’s wearing a structured tweed suit, neutral in colouring but exotic and expensive in cut and quality. Posed to be unimposing, Will thinks.

Caught off guard, he defaults automatically to stiff and formal with the stranger.

"Good evening. How can I help you?"

"Good evening, Detective Graham. My name is Hannibal Lecter. I am responding to your advertisement." The man offers a hand, but Will doesn’t shake it, still rattled, frowning until he adds, "We have Edith Jameson in common."

"Edith Jameson sent you?" Will says skeptically.

"No, Mister Graham, I sent me."

Will ruminates on that, surprised, and then he shakes himself. "Come talk in my study. Lotte, please would you spend some time on piano practice with Missus Cheswick until we’re finished here? Not long now."

"Yes, Father. Goodbye, Mister Lecter," Lotte gives him a shy wave, and Will watches curiously.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Graham." The stranger, Lecter, smiles at her, then refocuses on Will. They go into the study, and Will regards the newcomer with plain confusion.

"You seem to be in the middle of something," Lecter says, gesturing to the window when Will fails to grasp the thread of the conversation.

"Ah – yes… a bird scared by the storm, just hit the window. Poor thing."

Lecter tilts his head, curiosity rippling over his features before his eyes fall to the bundle of handkerchief and feathers on the desk. Embarrassed, Will wrestles with the situation, trying to redirect.

"Uh - so, I’m sorry. Miss Jameson didn’t say anything to you? I was expecting her."

"Not at all, I believe she was to be applying for this position herself, was she not? I simply hoped for a chance to introduce myself."

"She was…" Will fidgets with his cuffs again, eyes on the stranger’s impeccable shoes. "She is currently running late, however."

"Oh dear, I suppose it will be dreadfully embarrassing if I’m here when she arrives."

"You didn’t have an appointment," Will points out.

"No, I suppose I didn’t. My apologies, Detective Graham, my letter must have gotten lost in the post. I responded as soon as I saw your advertisement in the paper, but when I received no answer, I thought I might well just drop by." He sets a leather bag on the coffee table and opens it up, pulling out a newspaper clipping, circled in crisp blue ink. "Perhaps I addressed the letter incorrectly."

"Perhaps. You're applying for the governess position?" Will fails to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"I believe I possess all the necessary academic skills, and I have teaching experience – though not quite to this extent, I must confess." Lecter replies evenly, taking the seat that Will waves him to.

"I'm sure you do, but - I have a daughter."

"I know, Mister Graham. I met Miss Charlotte in the hall."

"Is that entirely appropriate? She's only ever had governesses before."

"I couldn't speak to your opinions, of course. In my own, it's entirely appropriate given the needs of the student and the tutor are well-matched." He ducks his chin. "I have always found that unorthodox methods, in the right context, can yield desirable results. As a boy I myself had an unusual teacher, and find myself a worthier, more well-rounded adult."

It's the word ‘unorthodox’ that strikes Will, and stills his automatic arguments. Charlotte is unorthodox. Will is unorthodox. He's tried not to be, for seven years, and the attempt is clearly failing, if it has brought him here.

"Lotte is not an ordinary girl in circumstance or person," he explains, reluctantly. "I’m not sure she’ll truly find herself ‘well matched’ to anyone."

"Then I consider myself in good company," says the stranger, folding his hands demurely in his lap. Will lets that sit; glances at the clock again. Almost eight. Suffice to say Miss Jameson has disappointed him.

_No harm in exploring options_ ¸ he thinks to himself, albeit without conviction.

"She likes Science," he continues faintly, "and reading. She wants to learn Greek, Latin, read Classics when she's ready. She wants to know everything she can, and she seems to outpace and undermine everyone else."

"I know the Sciences and Mathematics, Greek, and Latin, and Classics. I have medical training, and can instruct in Art, Music, Dancing. Even flower arranging in the Japanese manner. I am willing to offer myself for outpacing, if she'd care to try. I'm afraid undermining is unacceptable."

Will nods, steepling his fingers and tapping the points against his lower lip. "I would prefer that she find someone she respects, and not someone who disciplines her."

"I believe you've confused discipline with punishment, Mister Graham. Discipline is something we learn for ourselves."

That gives Will pause. "Then I want someone to teach her self-discipline, without applying their own," he says softly.

"Of course." Lecter gives him a Mona Lisa smile. "I also have an atypical background," he continues, "and if you don't mind my being frank, I think you and young Charlotte do, too. I believe I can provide Charlotte with the education and the understanding she needs."

"If _you_ don't _mind_ , Mister Lecter, I'd like to hear more about your background. You’ve never acted as governor before."

"No, I have a medical background as I say, I was trained as a surgeon and worked at a hospital for a number of years, and I had students of my own. Lately I have been more disposed to research and analysis, especially that of a psychological nature."

"And thus you are rightly Doctor Lecter, and you let me misname you." Will tightens his lips in apology.

"I did not introduce myself as Doctor and so you weren't to know."

"I'm afraid I cannot duplicate a doctor's salary for my daughter's governess position," Will says, still bemused.

"I don't need money," he quirks his shoulders in the stillest shrug Will has ever seen, "I have the training to teach, if that's what you're concerned about. I tutored children as a young man as well."

Will finds himself still wanting to protest, yet summoning no argument that might hold weight with himself. "I'm still not entirely sure I understand - you could become a school teacher, a lecturer-"

"I still could. For the time being, I have chosen not to."

He's chosen this. Will has no doubt that his place in society, and his somewhat unconventional approach to parenting, will be a subject of interest amongst many of their neighbours and societal peers. Doctor Lecter has demonstrated he already knows Will’s profession, and his status as an unmarried father, but Will can’t glean what else Miss Jameson might have passed on from her conversations with Alana Bloom. Whatever she has or hasn't said, this man is interested.

"How do you know Edith Jameson?" he asks, somewhat abruptly.

"By association only, I’m afraid – I have never met her in person. We were fellow columnists for an educational publication, I found out she was applying for the governess position through the grapevine, as it were. We have peers in common. She contacted me recently regarding my research into Alienism – she wanted to read up on the subject, and my papers on the matter are extensive and well-regarded. From then on it was simply a matter of putting two and two together."

"I see." Will does see. Edith Jameson wanted to forearm herself to the point of overpreparation – clearly she was desperate for the position, which makes her failure to attend even more confounding.

He also sees that she thought dealing with Will’s child might require notes from a damned _Alienist._

"An Alienist was _not_ specified in my advertisement," he points out, voice clipped. The Doctor actually smiles.

"And nor was it the reason for my application. Quite the contrary. I wish to spend some time shaping minds, rather than examining them, Mister Graham."

That only diffuses Will’s hostility slightly. He sets his jaw, fidgeting absently with his watch chain.

"If it helps convince you any of my sincerity," Lecter adds softly, "as a child, my tutor was the only person I truly felt understood my potential. He showed me how to better understand myself, too. It would satisfy me to give a child half of what he gave me."

"I appreciate your candor," Will says noncommittally. "And I'd be grateful if you'd leave me your direction so I can contact you once my interviews are complete."

"Very well." Doctor Lecter nods, looking very pleased with himself despite being all-but rebuffed. He rises, offering his hand once more.

Will holds himself back, remembering the bird on the desk.

"I haven’t had a chance to wash my hands, but thank you, Doctor," he says.

"A pleasure."

Will can almost believe him. He escorts him down to the door and bids him a good evening, watching the tall figure disappear into a waiting carriage after one final bow before he closes the door behind him, thinking hard.

*

He's still thinking about it an hour later when, having dealt with the dead blackbird and thoroughly washed his hands, he joins Lotte for dinner. She is clearly thinking about it also.

"Did you like Mister Lecter, Father?"

He thinks about the answer she wants. "You did. What did you talk about?"

"He was humming when Missus Cheswick answered the door, and I asked if he liked Beethoven."

"He was humming Beethoven? Is that what you've been looking at with Mister Budge?"

"Yes. He had played a concerto for me at last lesson."

Will nods thoughtfully. "Doctor Lecter teaches music, too," he muses aloud.

"He's a doctor?" her eyes widen.

"Yes, he is." He smiles at her obvious admiration.

"So he knows Science too!"

"So it would seem." He debates a second, and then sighs. "You don't want to see if anyone else turns up? Miss Jameson was at Miss Bloom’s recommendation, she must have gotten waylaid somehow."

"Father," she sighs back.

"Very well, very well. We will see how Doctor Lecter feels about a trial. I will speak to Miss Jameson first, though," he warns her.

"Yes, Father." She's smiling. She knows him entirely too well. In that at least, she knows he loves her.

He tugs her braid fondly, and she snickers and reaches out to take his glasses, putting them on and scowling exaggeratedly, putting on a sullen voice. "Look Father, I'm you."

"It's uncanny," he smiles, "if a little on-the-nose."

She tucks into her dinner with a smug grin of her own. The glasses keep falling down her nose, but she pays them no mind. Will's fondness is a dangerous thing.

He loves her to distraction. It's solid, constant. When he first found out about her, he was frightened that the detached state of shock was the only thing he'd ever feel, but it was eclipsed so immediately on her arrival into the world that he almost forgot it entirely.

It's a burning flame that warms him daily, especially as he tucks her into bed before returning to his study; sitting down at his desk and loading his typewriter. He takes a breath, and starts to type.

_Dear Doctor Lecter._

_Further to our unexpected meeting today, I would like to discuss your amenability to a trial period at the vacant post of tutor. If you have any concerns or questions, please feel free to arrange a time to address them._

_I readily await your response._

_Regards,_

_Dt. Will Graham_

He ought to wait until he's resolved where Miss Jameson has gotten to, but he can't see any reason to delay a simple trial. He can at least write it out. If he changes his mind, he'll throw it on the fire.

*

Will is eating breakfast from a tray at his desk the next morning when Missus Cheswick brings him the post.

"Thank you," he mutters distractedly, already trying to divide his attention between his plate, his paper and his work.

When he glances at the bundle again, the top letter is from Edith Jameson. It wins, and he opens it up rapidly, brows drawn. It's a letter of apology for her inability to attend her appointment last night – she had been inescapably detained by family matters, apparently, and due to unforeseen circumstances, she must withdraw her application for the position of governess. More apologies on that count. She does also make a dry comment about equal opportunities between the sexes which makes him smile, thinking of Alana.

It’s written in a crisp, cursive hand, the paper plain, common correspondence stock, smelling faintly of lavender. Will considers the contents again, and then sets it down.

"All right," he mutters to himself. He hands his letter to the Doctor back to Missus Cheswick. He'll give this a try.

He's surprised by the speed of the response. It's not gone lunchtime yet when another letter arrives on his desk with the midday post. It's Lecter, brief but perfectly cordial, his handwriting quite a contrast to Miss Jameson’s, flourishing and elegant copperplate on heavy yellow artists’ paper.

_Detective Graham,_

_Thank you for your letter, I look forward to meeting with you and discussing Charlotte's curriculum. I am available immediately to begin, all being well._

_Warm regards,_

_Doctor Hannibal Lecter_

Will feeds paper into his typewriter and hits out a response with a crime scene photograph hanging out of his mouth.

_We shall see you tomorrow morning, then, and see how things go over the week,_ he replies. _The position does offer room and board, though I neglected to ask if you require it._

_W.G._

Another few hours before this reply, but Will feels an unusual keenness when Missus Cheswick hands it over that night when he’s home from work, like an entertainment supplement. 

_I should be delighted to accept the position and all its amenities, should I be found sufficient, Detective. Until tomorrow._

_H. L._

Feeling a frisson of some unnamable feeling, Will rings for Missus Cheswick to make sure the quarters upstairs by the schoolroom are suitably prepared, and to instruct Cook to anticipate three for meals once again.

It feels like an accomplishment, and Charlotte seems quietly pleased too. He thinks she will miss Marshall, though, and freshly regrets his reluctance to allow her to socialise. She never precisely asks - she is his daughter - but he suspects he ought to make more of an effort. Lotte has everything Will can think of to entertain her, from hoops to her rocking horse, Meccano and a whole chest of dress up clothes – but he admits that he’s too readily let her become a homebird.

Maybe he'll ask Margot if they can make some kind of dinner arrangement sometime, or a picnic when the weather is finer. It would probably be good for all of them. And it would give Doctor Lecter a day, too. Will can hardly imagine the man has given up all of his own personal academic pursuits to tutor children.

It's an almost suspicious act of selflessness. Almost like self flagellation.

_Not everything is a crime scene,_ he reminds himself, sternly. He’s aware of his inability to trust, his biggest failing, and the one that might have the most terrible repercussions on Lotte as she grows – but he fears for her, and he’s seen enough evil day-to-day that he knows he'll do anything to keep her safe. Absolutely anything.


	3. Chapter 3

Doctor Lecter arrives exactly on time the next morning. He's every bit as impeccable as the previous meeting in warm neutrals, crisp white collar and cuffs. He doesn’t try to shake Will’s hand this time, but gives him a warm nod instead, and then looks around with a faint smile.

"Good morning, Mister Graham. Thank you for your correspondence yesterday."

"You're welcome," Will says, faintly prickled just by the familiarity.

"I confess I was surprised to hear from you. You seemed quite mistrustful of me."

"I'm afraid it is my nature."

"A good nature to have," Doctor Lecter smiles. Then, his attention seems diverted, and with it Will's: Charlotte is hovering shyly in the doorway.

Will refrains from sighing: she had given every indication that she would spend the morning reading while Will spoke with Doctor Lecter. "Lotte, come say hello."

She comes forward and does a short curtsy, as wary as Will of showing her neck. "Hello again, Doctor Lecter."

"Miss Charlotte," he replies, bowing politely in response. "Thank you for coming to say good morning."

"I wanted to." She smiles hopefully at Will, who represses one of his own.

"Lotte, we still have a few things to discuss before your piano lesson. I'll come fetch you when we are ready."

"I could show Doctor Lecter to his quarters," she volunteers, quietly.

Will glances at the doctor. "Have you brought your belongings?"

"I have a suitcase, yes." The leather box-bag from the other night, not big enough for a week’s worth of belongings, Will hazards, but doesn’t press.

"Charlotte will show you to your room. As you've already met our housekeeper, Missus Cheswick, I trust you will feel perfectly able to ring for anything you may require. You may join me in my office when you are prepared to discuss curriculum."

"That's very kind, thank you, Detective."

Meanwhile, Charlotte is smiling and attempting to lift the unobtrusive leather bag the doctor had brought inside with him. Lecter allows it, smile patient and genuine as he follows her toward the stairs, an incongruous shadow to her little figure.

Will is tempted to follow them as well. He keeps it at least at a reasonable distance, just so he can hear their voices. Lecter's deep and even, with its hint of a foreign accent. Charlotte's light and fluting.

"Father says you can teach me Latin," she says, soft and effusive.

"I can, yes. I take it you wish to learn?"

"Yes, so I can read cathedral windows," she tells him, with great confidence.

"Is that the only reason?"

"No." She doesn't seem inclined to elaborate any further. Will has to smile.

"Thank you very much for your assistance, Miss Charlotte," Lecter continues, "what a very fine home you have, and such a generous living space."

"The schoolroom is just next door," she says, "if you'd like to have a look. I'd better go back to my room too."

"Very well. I trust we will reconvene this afternoon."

"Of course!" she says cheerfully.

Will clears his throat to make himself known. "Lotte, please go and get ready for your piano lesson."

She makes the tiniest of faces. "Yes, Father."

He gently ruffles her hair as she walks past. Lecter is waiting politely in the doorway of his room.

"Let me show you next door," Will prompts.

"Of course."

They go into the schoolroom, as enticing and modern as Will can make it without it being overwhelming. He sees Lecter look around in - some surprise, he thinks.

"Open and light and inspiring," he says approvingly, "the perfect environment for a bright young mind."

"I hope so. There is also a library downstairs, if ever you are in need of a change of scenery."

"Excellent. I can see Charlotte's education is important to you."

"I realise she's young, but she's exceptionally intelligent, and that is not merely fatherly pride speaking," Will says.

"That's also obvious," Lecter nods, "if you don't mind my commenting, you seem very close to her."

"I'm all she has," Will says, a bit uncomfortably.

"And she's all you have, I'd argue."

"You would win that argument."

He gives Will a humouring little smile. "It's an admirable trait. Many fathers are not so hands-on."

"Well, no. It's not done, is it? I've heard that often."

"I believe it should be done. The Suffragettes are right - the differences between the sexes are societally contrived to keep women in line. No place for such narrow-mindedness in the future of our daughters." He sounds very certain of that.

Will nods quickly. "I don't want anything to stand in her way."

"Then we've clarified one thing about her schedule. I've prepared a syllabus I think will be suitable, I'd like your input."

"Did you need to unpack-?"

"It can wait, if you’re inclined to take a look now."

"Very well."

Lecter nods and strolls over to the bookshelves, inspecting the spines with something like surprise.

"I had originally drawn up a plan for a much younger eight than Charlotte appears to be."

Will smiles. "A common mistake."

Hannibal nods. "I'd like to get her started on grammar school curriculum, then, and see how she goes."

"What does that encompass?"

"It'll cover modules in English, History, Mathematics, Languages, Science, Etiquette and Sartorialism, Home Economics and Music, all broken down into four sections to complete over the course of the year, tests that measure against the common grammar school standard, though of course we can adjust if she’s finding anything too easy or – dare I say, too difficult."

Will nods. "Not so different from what I learned at boarding school."

"No, it shouldn't be."

"She wishes to learn both Latin and Greek," Will reimpresses, because it is _essential_ that he fulfill this promise to Lotte.

"And she will. How's her French?"

"Better than you'd think based on how much she resents it," Will laughs, and explains ruefully how the former governess had used it as a lure. Doctor Lecter looks remote at that, displeased in a way Will can't put his finger on. Will’s disapproval has ebbed since her dismissal, but as much as he’s reluctant to continue speaking ill of a former employee, he wants Lecter to _know_.

"I will endeavour to serve you and Charlotte as well as I can," Doctor Lecter says solemnly, "and I will not mislead her. Ever."

Will has to look away after a moment. It's too much earnest, and Will has never done well with eye contact.

"Your plan seems agreeable to me," he says haltingly.

"I'll need to assess her, to see what she’s already covered, though I’m sure she’s got plenty of exercise books and such that I can use to that end. And I believe you mentioned she is already studying piano?"

"Yes. She's going to her lesson shortly."

"And her teacher is?"

"A Mister Tobias Budge. You're welcome to join us."

Lecter hums. "Perhaps I shall. Do you have a piano in the house?"

"We do, she practices in the morning room."

"Good," Lecter hums. "Well, I shall unpack a little, and come join you when it's time to leave?"

Will nods. "Very well."

He leaves Lecter in the schoolroom, finding Lotte dawdling outside, though she's clearly not waiting for him.

"I’m ready," she protests, when Will opens his mouth to chide her about going out soon.

"Try not to bother him too much while he gets comfortable," he warns gently. She nods seriously, though he's not sure he believes her. They'll just have to test Doctor Lecter's behaviour management capabilities.

Will busies himself with binding up a couple of his completed profiles to send to Scotland Yard, along with two notes: one to Jack Crawford, with the profiles, as a balm to his waning patience, the other a quickly dashed off note to Margot Verger about his progress with finding Lotte a governor. Then he’s downstairs, locating his own coat and gloves.

The post comes, and he sends off his own, relieved to have at least something to show for his less frequent appearances at the office this week: he needs Jack Crawford to have something concrete, so he will relax his famously bulldoggish demeanour for a few days. Lotte has been the only successful shield he's ever had against him - the "no visiting the house unless it's an absolute emergency" rule fell on deaf ears when she was very small, but she's older now, more like Will, more able to pick up on the terror of his work; he's become more forceful as a result. Jack’s solution was of course far more insidious: he insisted Will had a telephone installed in his home, expenses paid. Will eyes it now, at the top of the stairs so he can hear it ring at night. If only he’d realised before that it would grant Crawford even easier access to Will’s mind, especially at night when it’s cleaved open in his dreams.

Nightmares have always plagued him since he was small, but never so much as now that he looks at crime scenes – the uglier, the more suited to Will they seem. He’s woken Lotte before with his screams, and nothing has ever made him feel so wretched: she has her own nightmares to contend with.

He makes a note to himself to think of a discreet way to inform Lecter about the days Lotte is too exhausted in the mornings for lessons. At the thought, he looks up to Missus Cheswick, who is cleaning out the fireplace in the morning room. "Would you call Lotte down? It's time to go for her lesson."

She nods and sets her dustpan aside, hurrying up, her cheerful voice ringing through the house.

"Miss Lotte, where are you?"

Will waits with her coat, unsurprised to see the Doctor trailing behind as Lotte and Missus Cheswick return. Doctor Lecter looks as neat as ever, despite having had little time to get settled, hat tucked under his arm, gloves on. He graciously thanks Missus Cheswick when she retrieves him his coat.

The carriage is waiting outside. Lotte seems unusually enthusiastic when they’re inside, and Will eyes her curiously as she chatters to the Doctor about what she’s learning, what she already knows. After a talkative journey, they arrive at Budge's shop, and Will thinks he sees Lecter's posture draw straighter before he opens the door.

Inside, Budge greets them in the foyer, apparently alone. His eyes flicker over Lecter, showing rather more interest than strictly warranted.

"Mister Graham, Mister-?"

"Doctor Lecter," he replies politely. "Miss Graham's new governor."

"Seems they're in short supply," Budge smiles.

Will bites his tongue.

"Of Miss Charlotte's calibre? Certainly." Lecter smiles back easily.

"Doctor Lecter will be bringing her to her lessons from now on," Will adds.

"Do you play piano?" Budge asks Hannibal.

"I do," Lecter replies, "though I prefer the sound of a harpsichord. You specialise in string instruments?"

"As you can see," Budge waves a hand at a wall of cellos.

Their conversation continues, but Will is only half listening: Lotte is tugging gently at his hand. He crouches down.

"What is it?"

"Maybe Doctor Lecter could teach me to play the piano," she whispers, very softly.

He shushes her automatically, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he stands. "We'll talk later."

With a sigh only Will can see, she goes off to sit at the piano bench and Mister Budge follows, closing the door over behind him with one last look at them both.

Voice hushed, Lecter steps closer to Will. "Do you stay to listen?"

"We can, if that would be helpful to you."

He nods. "I'd like to see her progress."

Will glances back at the other room. "I'm sure you're eminently capable. You play piano." He means it as a question but it comes as more a statement of interest.

"Harpsichord, as I said."

"Hm. Makes me wonder what else you’re eminently capable of," Will muses.

"In regards to what, might I ask?"

"Supervising Charlotte's progress," Will murmurs.

"I'd like to think so."

"Perhaps more?"

The Doctor tilts his head, listening to Lotte's playing.

"I wouldn’t like to presume I could outperform Mister Budge, but perhaps," he concedes.

"How much notice would a teacher require from a pupil?" Will asks casually.

"A couple of weeks."

Will nods. "I see." He feels the doctor's enquiring gaze. Will is just naturally cautious, and he pretends he doesn't notice.

They go back to listening to Charlotte's lesson in nearly comfortable silence, and after, Will politely excuses them all from Budge's shop and back into the carriage. He's pleased to hear Doctor Lecter praising Lotte for her skills.

As they converse, he switches seamlessly to French, and Lotte replies easily, only occasionally pausing to think. Will can follow along, but chooses to listen: his accent is atrocious. Doctor Lecter’s is anything but, and he seems very pleased, though it's not in his face, Will notices. Perhaps just his eyes.

Back at the house, Will turns to Doctor Lecter as Lotte is whisked off for lunch by Missus Cheswick.

" _À plus tard, Docteur Lecter_ ," she calls brightly over her shoulder, with apparently very little consideration for Will in the matter, much to his amusement.

" _Je suis pressé de voir ça_ ," he replies, all warmth and soft eyes, and Will feels that little spark of comfort again that is so rarely inspired these days: the Doctor is very obviously just as taken with Lotte as she is with him.

"Will you start this afternoon?" He asks, soft and hesitant. "I think she's… quite keen."

"Of course." Lecter inclines his head.

"Thank you. I have to go into work. I suppose I shall see you at dinner," he adds.

"What time do you usually eat?"

"Eight. Charlotte often eats with me."

Doctor Lecter tilts his head just an increment at that.

"Did your last governess usually eat with her?"

"Yes?" Will offers. "I prefer she eats with me, we don't see one another nearly enough when I'm working."

Lecter nods again, giving Will one of his approving smiles. "Very modern of you, Mr. Graham."

"If we are to have children, I believe we should like them and be interested in them," Will shrugs, "not exactly radical."

"And yet, unusual." Hannibal adjusts his cuffs. "For the record, I am fascinated by Miss Charlotte, and I very much like her."

"Thank you," Will murmurs. He watches him again for a moment, his own curiosity peaked at the Doctor’s unshakable stillness, then he nods to himself. "See you at dinner."

"Good afternoon, Detective Graham." Lecter bows his head.

Will nods in return and turns to his own office to gather his things, and his thoughts: he has to go meet Jack today, discuss their latest case and whatever fresh blood Jack has sniffed out, or indeed old blood: still no leads on whoever mutilated the woman in the warehouse. Despite his trepidation, Will is still distracted with the thought of his new Governor. He's interested to see how Lotte finds her first afternoon. She will certainly not withhold her opinions, that much he’s certain of, and the thought makes him smile as he heads downstairs. He hopes it carries him through the meeting at Scotland Yard.

***

Charlotte’s face is characteristically apprehensive as she sits at her little desk in the classroom. She’s watching Hannibal, he thinks, from beneath her curls. Despite her insistence on retaining him as her tutor, she still harbours doubts. More like her father than he even knows, Hannibal suspects.

"How are you this morning, Miss Charlotte?" He asks lightly.

"Very well, thank you Doctor."

"I’m pleased to hear it." He seats himself at his own desk across from her. "I imagine you're anxious for a fresh start."

"Yes. May I have a copy of our class schedule please?" She asks it very politely, eyes down.

"As it so happens, I have one right here."

She takes it with a murmur of thanks, eyes scanning over the neat copy Hannibal has drawn up for her.

"Philosophy," she reads aloud. "Languages. Field trips. Sar-sartorialism?" One dark little brow quirks as she stumbles over the unfamiliar word.

"Pertaining to tailoring and fashion, Miss Charlotte." It looks to be the one area of their household that they’re not well-versed in. Where her father always looks passably smart in slightly out-of-date suits, Lotte seems to wear mostly dark clothes, rather bland, conservative. Hannibal has made a mental note to update them both, in time.

"This last one is -" she stumbles over the word several times.

"Cynophilia," Hannibal supplies with a smile. "We shall put a bit of extra effort into your Latin, if you cannot guess it."

She studies it hard a moment longer, brows drawn. "Can I have a clue? Father lets me have a clue when I don't know right away."

Hannibal comes around to perch on the corner of her desk. He draws a neat vertical line between the O and the P. "These are the two root words. Do either of them look familiar?"

"I know 'philia' is a special interest."

"Good. And if I told you 'cyno' could also be spelled 'cano'?"

Her eyes brighten. "Dogs!" Then they widen like a little owl as she looks from the paper in her hand to him.

"Exactly right." He smiles at her.

"Did my father tell you I liked dogs?" she asks suddenly.

Hannibal smiles wider, rising again from the desk, going to his ledger to retrieve the scrap of exercise book paper, printed with her neat, childish script.

"Not precisely." He hands it to her.

"It's my list." She bites her lip. "How are we going to do a class on - cynophilia?"

"I think it will probably involve a field trip," he replies with a smile, "possibly even on a Wednesday."

"Really?" Even excited at the prospect, she seems guarded. "Where?"

"I believe I can find someone with a dog ready to help, little one. It would be most educational."

Her brows draw at that. "So this is just this week's schedule?"

"Yes, though I imagine we'll just make minor adjustments from week to week. Is that acceptable to you?"

She looks uncertain, and so he waits, face open and friendly.

"What adjustments?" She asks eventually. It seems important that she at least know what to expect.

"The last two classes will be alternated with other lessons, such as music or art. Mustn't buy you a wardrobe every week, or I fear your father might sack me."

"He won't. He always tries his hardest to please me." She doesn't sound smug for the fact.

"He cares very much about you," Hannibal replies.

"I know that. That's why he gave you my list."

Hannibal holds back a smile. "Except he didn't."

"So how did you get it?"

"What would you say if I said magic?"

"I'd tell you I'm not a baby and I don't believe in magic."

"I won't insist, then."

"Thank you." She looks at him expectantly.

"I also think I ought to preserve a bit of mystery in my dealings," he smiles blandly.

"Like a magician?"

"Perhaps."

She smiles at her desk shyly. "Father says you're a doctor."

"A medical doctor? Yes."

"Tell me what it's like?"

"Do you mean medical school? Surgery? Giving spoonfuls of sugar to little girls with their medicine?"

"Surgery!" she says immediately.

Hannibal hides a smile. "Not a subject for the faint hearted."

"Well I'm not!" Great offense in her tone, now, quickly diffused by his laughter.

"Very well." He studies her. "One lesson a week on common surgeries and first aid."

"Really?" she brightens.

"Yes, I believe it would be beneficial. It is an excellent idea, Charlotte, thank you."

"No, thank you." She smiles shyly at her hands. "A real doctor. It's wonderful."

"We are not so different from everyone else," he comments.

"No," she says promptly. " _You_ are, Doctor Lecter."

"Well, I am a magician. But I suspect you know a little something about being different, too."

Her little pinched moue looks like something she may have learned from her father. "Why do you say that?" she asks coolly.

"I have known many children and not many have made me request lists."

"Just because I'm a child doesn't mean I have to do as I'm told," she shrugs.

"I don't know that that is strictly true," Hannibal says evenly, "but I do believe that it is a sign of a healthy and enquiring mind."

She pulls a sullen little face. Though her manners are not poor, this impetuousness is unbecoming - though not unamusing, either. She was certainly charming the first time they met - though headstrong then as well. She's still charming now, starting to fidget under the weight of Hannibal's silence.

"I hope you get along with Papa," she whispers finally. "He never did, with any of the governesses."

A warm smile at that. Yes, Detective Graham had captured his attention quite masterfully from the first moment Hannibal had seen him, harried and carrying the scent of death and thunder.

"I am sure we will."

She gives him another little smile, almost performative in its sweetness. No, he thinks, it is. She's quite good at it. Not as good as him, though.

"So," he continues, "I believe we were starting with Latin."

Her fingers twitch toward her pencil, and Hannibal stands up, making his way to the black board. Begin at the beginning, he supposes, is as good an idea as any.

With his new charge listening attentively, he starts to outline the history of Latin.

***

It's quite past Lotte’s bedtime when Will finally gets home, shaking off the cold fingers of the London night and warming himself briefly on the last embers of the fire in the front room. His head is filled with the fluttering winds from dark wings, and he struggles to shake it off, the luminous tongues of the flames almost dulled by the branded scenes from the day.

Another murder, like that in the warehouse. A man this time, strung up like some sort of angel, gruesome wounds from throat to groin that had been neatly sewn back up, bulging like some nightmarish pregnancy. His head had been missing, this time, hands and feet too. Will had known immediately what they would find, when they opened the abdomen.

Shaking his head to rid himself of the thought, Will puts the guard back in front of the fire and leaves it to die. Finding the rest of the house deserted, and a dinner left for him in the kitchen under a cloche, Will slinks upstairs to Lotte’s room and peeks in through the crack in the door. Sure enough, her lamp is lit. He raps gently.

"Father," she says, pushing herself up against the pillows, pleasure at the sight of him evident in her face.

"Hello, titch. May I come in?"

"Of course." She's smiling wide. She shifts when Will sits down on the edge of the bed, getting closer to him so that he can delicately sweep a hand through her hair.

"Sorry I missed dinner," he says. "I fear I've given the doctor a less than stellar first impression."

"Perhaps," she shrugs, "but I think he might give you the benefit of the doubt."

"I do hope so. Tell me about the rest your day?"

"We started reading Latin poetry," she whispers, eyes widening in delight, "And then Doctor Lecter talked to me about being a surgeon, he told me all sorts of things, it was so fascinating - and then we read some of my book."

"Do you think you might get on with him, Lotte?"

"Oh, I hope so." She smiles. "Do you think you might, Father?"

Will thinks about it, and decides it would be uncharitable to share his reservations. "I certainly hope so."

She looks so transparently pleased, smiling in the direction of his shoulder, her eyes down and hands fidgeting, he knows he made the correct decision.

He leans companionably into her side. "What did you learn about in Latin?"

"Conjugations. _Ego sum_ ," she chimes back. "Doctor Lecter says it's the most important thing to know about yourself."

Will thinks about that, and then he nods. "He's right. _Ego sum qui sum_." He leans in and kisses the top of her head at the thought. "And what I am, is your father. And it is bedtime. I shall try harder not to miss dinner tomorrow."

"It's all right, Father. I know." She smiles at him as he moves to the door. She knows better than to ask after his work. "Good night."

"Good night, Lotte." He closes the door behind himself and goes down the hall to the study. As always, there is work to be done.

On the landing, he’s startled by the long figure of Doctor Lecter leaving his room, and they both pause on the landing at the sight of one another.

"Looking in on her," Will explains, almost guiltily, "I saw the light was on."

"She’s a night owl like you then. Sorry to miss you at dinner, I’m not sure Missus Henderson and Missus Cheswick knew quite what to do with me."

"Sorry to have deserted you," Will smiles despite his weariness, albeit without mirth.

"Perhaps you could make it up to me. A drink?"

"It’s late, and I have work..."

"Then you’ll need fuel. Come, indulge me. Miss Charlotte’s conversation was riveting at dinner, but she cannot yet appreciate good brandy."

"I take it you have some."

"I do."

"All right." Will nods. "My study, then."

With a nod, the Doctor turns on his heel, presumably to go and retrieve his stash. That leaves Will to gaze at the space he vacated, the static dark whirling. For a moment, he thinks he sees the column of birds again, taking the shape of a man.

Doctor Lecter joins him in the study a few minutes later, Will feeding and stoking the fire while the drinks are poured.

"Not so long ago, brandy was used to fill thermometers instead of mercury," he tells Will in his pleasant, rolling voice, "due to its dynamic liquid-state temperature. I find myself rather relieved they stopped wasting it in such a manner. I much prefer to warm it for the sake of pleasure."

"Depends on the kind of brandy," Will quips, pleased at the answering chuckle.

He notices that the Doctor makes no attempt to hide his interested inspection of the room. His eyes linger on the grisly photographs peeking out of a file on Will's desk, having slid out when he threw it down moments before. Waiting on it had kept him loitering in his office for a better portion of the evening, but it at least gave him a good opportunity to write some comparisons.

"You've been working very hard," Lecter comments mildly.

"It seems evil is a night owl, too."

"I suppose you're correct." He raises his hand to the file, a delicate little 'may I?' gesture.

"It's not a pleasant sight," Will warns.

"I used to be a surgeon, Mister Graham."

"I know," Will murmurs. "But even so -"

Hannibal decisively flicks open the file and surveys the contents, and Will waits for his assessment as though a piece of art; watches his expression grow dark with concern.

"Grim work," he observes.

"Some more so," Will replies.

"More than this?" Hannibal keeps looking through the grainy images.

"Sometimes. These are at least...neatly done."

"No head. To stop the body from being identified?"

"Maybe, though this killer – he takes organs. Body parts. Perhaps he decided a brain would be nice for his collection, too. It’s done the job though, unless someone comes forward, we’ll never find him. We’ll never know. So far canvassing hasn’t turned up much, and the first day is usually critical."

"A shame," Hannibal says soberly. He looks back at the photo once more. "Something Medieval about it, graverobbing."

"Is it graverobbing if you create the need for a grave?"

Neither of them smile at that, and Will looks grimly at his drink. Too dark.

"Feathers." Hannibal frowns. "They look as if they've... burst."

"Well..." Will hesitates. "It's not a pleasant conversation, Doctor." Just an expectant look at that. Will sighs and points to one of the incisions, the ragged ends of thread. "Live birds were sewed inside the cavity," he murmurs. "The responding officers cut them out."

"Cut them... didn't it-?"

"Yes," Will interjects gravely. "Made quite a mess." He holds the next photo up, freshly developed, still a little damp. "I can't stop thinking about it."

"I'm not surprised."

"He was completely hollowed out," Will says softly, eyes closed. "Filled with blood, beaks, and desperate wings."

"What happened to his insides?"

"Just... gone." Will pushes himself back up, paces to the fire.

"What would he do with them?"

"I’m not sure," Will murmurs. "I shudder to think."

Hannibal tilts his head at that, gaze going unfocused, like he's imagining why.

Will stares at the flames.

"Filling a cavity with birds... was he using them as a cage?" Hannibal whispers.

"He tried to cage a living thing," Will murmurs. His mind all too readily revisits the dead man. "He was already hollow inside."

The thought makes him come to the file. Something about the kill seems so disdainful... a punishment. The birds inside captives.

"Are they a clue?" Will wonders aloud.

"Perhaps. But perhaps they only have meaning to the killer."

"Finding out that meaning is sort of what I do."

"You have to explore deeply within the forts of their mind," the doctor murmurs.

Will wanders to the window then, agitated and restless, nodding before he takes a sip of his drink. He looks out onto the dark, quiet street, the gas lamps since turned out.

"It's hard to find my way back."

"No flickering lighthouse at the home port?" Hannibal asks.

"Just one, and she's very small," Will murmurs. He glances back at Hannibal.

The doctor merely nods. "I see. Perhaps you need to light a few more lanterns."

Will meets his eyes for a moment, dark and still. "Easier said than done."

Hannibal nods in acknowledgment. "It can be."

"Do you have many lanterns burning, Doctor?"

"A chapel alight with candles is always awaiting me," the doctor replies softly.

"That sounds peaceful."

"It is. Rooms of quiet contemplation can always exist, even if only in our minds."

"Hm, can't say I've any experience of quiet rooms."

"You can always find one with me," Hannibal murmurs.

Will colours slightly at the forwardness of it, looking into his drink determinedly, but the doctor says nothing more, just sips his own brandy.

"Light one for Lotte for me, won't you?" Will whispers, finally.

"Of course, Mister Graham. Of course."

He looks down at his drink, then at the photos once more. "He's a captor," he muses, "your killer. He catches."

"And holds?" Will nods. "It fits." He thinks about it as he sips his drink. "Does that make the birds _their_ captives?"

He can glean little from the Doctor's expression, even as he examines the photos once more.

"Maybe so," Hannibal holds two of the photos up side by side, the woman from the warehouse and this man, today, in the hull of an unseaworthy ship at the Docks.

"You're certain this is the same hand?" he asks.

"I can't see how they couldn't be," Will shrugs. "How many people stitch birds into people? Like they give birth to them, but it's - an escape. Like the birds will die if we don't find them in time."

"Are the victims connected in any way?"

"Not that I know of, yet," Will sighs. "First victim worked at an orphanage, but no clue about motives. We're not sure about an ID on this one, yet."

"Well, I trust Scotland Yard is working diligently on it," Hannibal demurs.

"Hope to have it by the morning."

"Then perhaps you ought to get some sleep, Detective. Even the midnight oil occasionally runs out."

Will feels a little admonished; embarrassed for the fact. "I don't uh - I don't sleep well after getting home late. I'll just have another drink and settle myself, don't worry if you're ready to turn in, Doctor."

"Not at all worried," Hannibal answers. "I can leave you alone, if you wish."

For once, Will finds he doesn't mind, but that thought doesn't fill him with anything but uncertainty somehow.

"I should carry on with my work," he says apologetically.

"Very well," the doctor replies. "I wish you a restful night regardless."

"Thank you, Doctor."

He watches the man take up his discarded glass and incline his head.

"Good night, Mister Graham."

"Good night," Will replies quietly.

The door closes over, leaving Will alone with the grisly reminders of his work.


	4. Chapter 4

After the morning's breakfast, Doctor Lecter charges Lotte with going upstairs to pick her favourite books for the morning's literature class, leaving Will rather dauntingly alone with him at the table as he scribbles away in a pocket notebook. He and Lotte seem to be getting along marvelously, Will notes, and he's already outlasted at least one governess.

"She seems very excited about her learning," Will observes: they have both endured her excited chatter about the previous day's lesson warmly over the morning.

"She and I have agreed upon a very diverse curriculum."

At Will's querying look, he smiles. "It's only very slightly different than the syllabus you and I agreed, upon her request."

"I do hope the request was polite."

"She is a charming young lady," Hannibal confirms. "Much like her father, I believe."

Will scoffs before he can stop himself, cheeks heating. "You'd be the first."

"I doubt that, very much."

"Trust me."

"I think you haven't been talking to the right people, Mr. Graham."

Will's mouth curls in a mean little smile. "Does that make you the right people?"

"Well, of course."

"In that case, welcome to the fold."

Hannibal tips his head ever so slightly. "I'm delighted." Despite his generally ambiguous tone, now he seems thoroughly genuine.

Will isn't sure he's ever felt eyes like these on him. It makes his cheeks heat faintly, to know that he's being _studied_ , somehow. He interests people, yes. He's used to that, but this feels more like regard. It feels like a spider tapping over his skin.

"How's your room?" Will asks, possibly to distract himself.

"Adequate to my needs, thank you." Hannibal adjusts his cuffs primly.

"Do you need anything to make it more than adequate?"

"Just time, Detective."

"Well - if you think of anything else, all you need do is let me know."

"I will, of course. You are quite kind."

"You live in this house, you get as many bookcases and lamps as you want."

Hannibal's lips twitch, just barely. "I am unsurprised."

"I guess you've seen the library."

"Only briefly. I wouldn't mind seeing it again, with its attendant."

Will pauses, unsure if he's misinterpreting. "I- of course."

"It does not need to be right now," Hannibal replies.

"I'm available if you are." Will lifts his chin slightly.

A smile curls the corner of the Doctor's cat-like mouth. "Very well."

Will feels nearly self-conscious as he takes Hannibal through to the library. More affectionately dubbed so than truly deserving of the title, it's a modest room crammed floor to ceiling with books, a couple of moth-eaten sofas, and a little girl-sized footstool. It is currently unoccupied, but is not often so in the evenings. Will loves this room, and he knows Charlotte does too. Even Missus Cheswick can be found in here sometimes - the place is well-stocked with fictional titles as well as more educational texts.

"I approve," Doctor Lecter tells him, warmly, looking around.

"Feel free to use what you may need for Lotte, or your own amusement."

"She comes in here a lot, I imagine?"

"She's usually either here or in her window seat," Will allows. He nods toward one of the bookcases, home only to Lotte's books. "Those are just the ones that don't fit in her room, or the classroom."

He watches the doctor smile. "And the rest are the ones that don't fit in your room or your office?"

"Essentially." Will laughs softly. "Somehow our favorites still end up here."

"Favourites often feel like they need a sacred space," Hannibal muses.

"Sacred spaces would probably have fewer holes in the upholstery," Will laughs dryly.

"The most beloved churches are often the least rich."

Hannibal Lecter just loves to contradict people, it seems. Will can appreciate that.

"Well, it certainly is beloved, and it certainly isn't rich. If only we had stained glass."

"Just close your eyes and imagine it," Hannibal murmurs, and Will shivers a little.

"I'm good at that."

"I imagine you are." He sounds amused at his own little wordplay. They exchange smiles again, though Will's feels a little self-conscious: Hannibal is standing quite close to him, the warmth of his shoulder just seeping between the barrier of their clothes in the quiet, dust-scented space.

"Perhaps I should let you get back to work," Will says, after pretending not to notice for longer than is strictly polite.

"Of course," he murmurs. "Though may I say what a pleasure it is to have had a chance to get to know you a little."

His voice is warm and silky. Will responds to it even without intending to. A shiver at his timbre, curiously visceral.

"The feeling is mutual."

"Good," Hannibal nods. "That's good."

Neither of them move then for a minute, just holding one another's gaze, until the sudden sound of Lotte's distant calls startles them both.

"My pupil awaits," Hannibal smiles.

Shaking off his shock, strangely guilty, Will laughs. "She will not likely wait long. Good day, Doctor."

Despite himself, he can't help but turn and watch the strong shoulders as the Doctor walks away. Will swallows at the sight, so painfully aware of every movement. He's never had another man in the house, certainly not in any familial capacity, and it strikes him as strange, how he feels perfectly safe. Safe, but also...energised. Curious, too. Acknowledged, in some electric way. He can't quite explain it, and he's not sure he wants to.

*

The first couple of weeks with Doctor Lecter as Lotte's governor are strangely easy to adjust to. He's quiet, punctual, and adored by everyone almost instantly: Lotte quietly hangs on his every word, and even Missus Cheswick seems charmed by his sincere flattery and open appreciation. Will hears him comment on her fine perfume one morning; the way in which she treats his coat and suits. Indeed, his only detractor in the household is Cook, and this only after he'd requested permission to give Lotte a cookery lesson once a week.

Will has been avoiding her for that precise reason: he has not the social skills to defend Doctor Lecter - nor himself - against her disapproval. He has no time to attempt to hire a new cook, either, not that he'd simply dismiss someone for disapproval: he'd have very few acquaintances indeed. He feels, however, without really having words for the feeling, that he ought not to have to tolerate it in this case.

Shaking away his more mediocre concerns for the morning, he heads down for breakfast. He doesn't have to leave so early today, and he has a chance to go down and join Lotte and Doctor Lecter for a change.

In the blue and white striped dining room, he helps himself to a plate from the dark wood sideboard and fills a cup of coffee from the pot, admiring the smell for a minute, slightly different than usual.

"Good morning, Mister Graham," Doctor Lecter greets him as he enters the dining room, stark without the small shadow he usually tows. He’s wearing a rich blue suit that seems incredibly dark against the décor.

"Doctor," Will murmurs, seating himself in his customary spot. Missus Cheswick comes to deposit some toast on the table and he’s still frowning at his coffee. "Did we get new coffee-?"

"My doing," Doctor Lecter interjects, taking a seat and unfolding a newspaper, passing Will the front sections and keeping the arts for himself. "I had quite the leftover supply from my travels to Italy, and thought it only sensible to use the last of it here before it spoils. It’s more than one man can drink, I fear."

"You haven’t seen Mister Graham go through it," Missus Cheswick puts in, and Will lets the levity catch like a cold, smiling into his cup.

"Well, it’s delicious, thank you," he mutters. Lecter only nods, and Will feels his eyes on him for a few minutes even while he exchanges idle chatter with Missus Cheswick.

Eventually, he looks at the clock on the wall. "Missus Cheswick, is Charlotte coming down-?"

"I'll go and ask her again, Mister Graham."

"Thank you." He tops his coffee up at the sideboard again, and then the Doctor’s empty cup at his nod. "What's today at school?" He asks.

"A trip to the museum, an exhibition that’s on," the doctor replies. "Sketching, Ancient History – Aztecs, Mayans, etcetera."

Will hums as he sits down, and overall he's pleased, though he can't stop himself from adding, "Sometimes busy places make her anxious."

"I will keep it in mind, Mister Graham."

"Thank you." Genuinely, Will has utmost faith that he will.

Doctor Lecter tilts his head. "What engaging matters will you be attending to today, might I ask? Missus Cheswick says you’re instrumental in the capture of vicious murderers."

"Not precisely," Will tries to hide his wince. "I consult for Violent Crimes only."

"A consulting Detective."

"Just so." Will sighs, a smile touching his own mouth.

"Harrowing work." No mention of it being fascinating, nothing to suggest he thinks Will could enjoy it. He's grateful for it.

"It is the kind of work that causes me to cherish my time here at home with Lotte," Will murmurs.

"Cherishing must be a great motive for you," Hannibal observes.

"That seems a polite way to call me protective."

"There's nothing wrong with being protective."

"I hope not, or I would be very wrong indeed."

That gets another soft smile. Lecter's smiles seem to emanate more from his eyes than his mouth.

Once again, Will is intrigued by the extreme discipline in his movements. He wonders if it's from his medical training, or something else. He supposes he could ask, but the man isn't here to socialise with Will.

At the thought, Charlotte finally comes downstairs with Missus Cheswick, all in a rush.

"I'm sorry Father, Doctor Lecter, I got distracted by my book -"

Will soothes her with a gentle hand. "Do try to be mindful, Lotte," he murmurs.

"I will." She jumps up onto her seat, shooting Lecter a look. He smiles at her, more plainly than he does Will, and she serves herself quickly, while Will tells her quietly to take her time.

They're largely quiet while they start eating. Will notices that Doctor Lecter seems to eat with a peculiar interest in whatever he's putting in his mouth. He thinks Cook's meals don't quite merit exceptional study.

He opens his mouth, perhaps to remark on the matter, and then is immediately distracted by Charlotte having a near-catastrophic run in with the orange juice decanter, though Doctor Lecter saves her with long arms and unusually quick reflexes.

"Sorry," she says shyly.

"No harm done, Miss Lotte."

"Are you excited about today?" Will asks her, pouring himself and the doctor coffee.

"I’m very much looking forward to the museum," she chirps.

"That’s wonderful," Will smiles, and means it. She doesn't seem nervous at all, to his relief.

"There's an exhibition on ancient Egypt," Hannibal puts in. Will makes a noise of interest into his coffee before Lotte perks up.

"Father? I read that Egyptian tombs were sacred places - graves, aren't they?"

"Ancient Egyptian kings were considered gods," Will murmurs.

Lotte suddenly looks worried at that, and Will and Doctor Lecter exchange brief glances before looking back to her.

"Why are they in the museum?" Lotte frowns. "Shouldn't they be in Egypt?"

It is the doctor who answers.

"They should, Lotte. However, until that wrong is righted, we should be able to visit them unsmited, as long as we are respectful."

Will notices he doesn't make the typical argument about false gods. He's not sure if he's pleased or not. In any case, Lotte doesn't seem to notice: her religious upbringing is something he's neglected as sadly as anything else traditionally indoctrinated. She just nods thoughtfully, probably thinking about the implications of Doctor Lecter's words.

"Am I still allowed to draw the artifacts?" she asks softly.

"Yes, I should think so."

"Good," she murmurs.

Doctor Lecter smiles at her kindly.

"I expect we shall both enjoy it."

"Doctor Lecter draws beautifully, Father," she turns her attention to him briefly before smiling back at the Doctor.

"How nice. I fear I have no talent in that area."

"You draw good dogs," she says cheerfully.

Will can't quite tell what expression his face shifts into, but Doctor Lecter is smiling.

"I suppose I've adequate practice at those," Will replies dryly. He decides on a whim to share with the Doctor: "Lotte would like a puppy, but I'm afraid we don't have much time for one at the minute."

"And every time I ask, Father draws me one and says ‘there, make sure to look after him now.'" She puts on an approximation of Will's voice.

"And have you?" Lecter asks seriously.

"I have seven now," she nods.

"Quite a pack."

"Big enough to pull a sled," Lotte agrees.

Will snickers, quite undignified of him, but he’s made thoughtless by his blind joy in her brightness. He looks down at his plate, willing his expression to settle.

"Where will they pull you to, Miss Charlotte?" The Doctor asks, genuinely.

She takes a sip of her juice, very adult in her consideration. "Italy," she says.

"Italy. A fine choice, it's a very beautiful country. I lived there for a while as a young man myself."

Her eyes widen slightly. "Do you speak Italian as well?"

"Si," Hannibal smiles. "Also Lithuanian and a bit of Polish, if you must know, Miss Lotte."

"Will you teach me to speak Italian, Doctor Lecter?"

"Perhaps once you've made some progress with Latin."

"I have made some," she makes a little face that reminds Will fiercely of himself again.

The doctor looks faintly surprised to be contradicted, and apparently sensing she's in trouble, Lotte goes pink and looks at her breakfast.

"I would like to remind you to be polite, Charlotte," Will murmurs.

"Sorry," she whispers, and he feels like a monster, looking to Doctor Lecter.

"I assure you I was not dismissing your progress, Miss Charlotte," he tells her gently, "but your father is right: politeness is just as effective as force."

She nods silently, and Lecter seems willing to let the subject drop. Will gives her a little smile when he passes her the jam, and she smiles back.

The rest of breakfast proceeds without incident, and Lotte and Doctor Lecter have reverted to practicing French by the time her plate is clear. Then, Missus Cheswick herds Lotte upstairs to get ready to go out, and Will watches the Doctor sedately following behind to pack her a bag, feeling that strange, tangible presence of Change on the air. Mostly, he hopes Lotte continues to be pleased with Doctor Lecter. He is pleased with Doctor Lecter. At least so far. He's still not quite sure how he came to be here, in his home, talking in French with his daughter - but he thinks he's glad of it.

He leaves Lotte and the Doctor putting on their coats for the walk to the museum and goes to hail a carriage to Scotland Yard. His mind is still on Lotte and her obvious, new fascination with her new governor, but it's fond, and amused, and a pleasant distraction from the way the sky seems to darken with every step closer to Scotland Yard.

The fog is at bay this morning, but it's left the city looking dingy in its wake. There'll be rain later, Will knows. With a sigh, he goes inside, taking off his hat and showing his identification to the secretary as he makes his way to Jack Crawford's office.

Jack greets him brusquely as usual. "Will, good. We have to go look at a body."

Will sighs, then puts his hat back on.

"And how are _you_ today, Jack?" he asks pointedly, and is soundly ignored for his trouble.

"I'm frustrated at the lack of leads on the Dockside murders."

"I know," Will murmurs.

"And now I have another," Jack booms, "like evil has stolen another inch from under my feet in the night."

Will turns his hat in his hands. "Do we have a name yet?"

"Not yet, we're waiting on an ID."

"Has the body been moved yet?"

"No, I asked for it to be left in situ, which is why we have to move as fast as possible."

"I'm ready," Will sighs.

Jack herds him out into the car.

Will hopes he can close his eyes for a few minutes while they ride. His head already hurts.

It doesn’t feel any better when the car judders to a stop. Will peers up at the cluster of people that obscure the mouth of the narrow alley between the two factories, and curls his lip in distaste at the craning of necks.

Time to look. Time to see.

The alley is cordoned off by police, all of them looking decidedly grey and bleak. Will sees several faces he recognises on the way in, Doctors Price, Zeller and Katz, all attending morticians with backgrounds in these kinds of consultation. Doctor Katz gives him a pleasant wave, the only cheerful face at the grisly scene. Will can’t help but wave back.

"Give us some space, everyone," Jack commands, sending them and the other police officers scurrying. He lifts the sheet from the body himself, baring pale, putrid flesh to the light and disrupting flies, and then he leaves Will alone with her.

She’s white, middle-aged, not particularly fit, and she has been mutilated, left naked with her stomach standing open, livid bruises from some kind of cane or switch covering the rest of her skin, her arms and legs amputated, two shoes lay humiliatingly where feet might once have been. The missing limbs are nowhere to be seen in the stinking alley. From the discoloration of her skin, she looks to have been dead for a few days, but when Will bends closer to look, covering his mouth with his handkerchief, he sees there’s an almost dried quality, like the torso has been hung in some lonely abattoir - _aged._

At the vile image, Will shudders automatically, but keeps looking. Beneath the strike marks, bloody and bruised, there's gashes in her lower stomach, but none of the usual signs of a sex crime. This isn’t spur of the moment, motivated by anything as simple as displeasure. This is no mugging. This is punishment for something grievous.

Will swallows heavily, and the twitch of a maggot in the skin turns his stomach, making him straighten, closing his eyes.

Jack calls his name when he turns and walks away.

"Where are you going-? Will. Will!"

At the mouth of the alley, he takes a deep breath.

"Organs haven’t been removed like the other victims, but limbs have," he murmurs, imagination turning like a cog in the pit of his stomach. There's a connection here, though not at first apparent; a common thread. Will can see it gleaming. He reaches out; grasps and starts to gently pull.

He startles when Jack comes up beside him.

"What're we looking at?"

"Connections," Will mutters, annoyed.

"Connections to who?"

"I don't know yet. Get me a name."

"All right, I'm working on it. What else do you need?" he asks Will.

"A little more time with her," he says softly.

"Alone?"

"Please."

Jack nods and starts shouting people out of the alley once more, dispersing them even from crowding the mouth of the narrow alley.

With a great sigh, Will closes his eyes; turns back to the dead woman. When he opens them, she's stood before him, piercing, pale fear in her face.

"She's a capable woman. Older, strong, no nonsense. But I have no hesitation, and she has something I want."

Before him, the dead woman clutches her throat, twisting and roiling to look back at her attacker.

"I cut off her air, and she goes down quickly. She's no match for me. No one will notice her absence, insignificant as she was. I kill her in a private place, and scatter the parts."

Will kneels over her, taking out a blade - her hands have to go first, hands that took that which was not earned.

"I open you up to show the world how empty you are."

Will peers into the cavity of her stomach, and inside sees the gleam of her organs, and something else too - something _different_. In his mind he holds up the tiny bird egg, pale blue and speckled, and turns it in the light.

"I put a nest inside you, one last use of the warmth, a life that will never come to be – potential extinguished. You will waste it, like you wasted every other opportunity you had; misplaced the trust that was bestowed upon you with this precious burden."

Will remembers unintentionally disrupting a blackbird nest as a boy, climbing trees in the woods. His elation at the climb had so quickly turned to horror, to shame, at the sight of the fallen nest and its shattered occupants. He’d scrabbled down and turned it, to see if he could return it, but his hand had found blood and he’d thrown himself back before he could see the devastation of his carelessness. He feels suffused with the same horror now, slitting her belly, pushing aside the viscera to make a place for the shame and failure she deserves.

Coiled unseen amongst the offal, shining with dirt and slick, the little eggs begin to crack. Will watches with fascination as they come to life with movement, rocking and turning in bare motions. Leaning closer to get a better look, he turns his head to listen for the first peeping call.

A burst of wings and feathers, and a spray of blood. A bird bursts from within her, up into the air where it pitches over the top of the factory and vanishes. Will stares after it, eyes wild, and realises nobody else has noticed.

He's still clutching himself when he jerks back to reality, his teeth bared against the sear of pain; the stench. It takes him a few moments to convince himself of his wholeness again, that he’s separate from the body on the floor.

Still not enough, he sighs, and raises his head, breaths still unsteady. The officers are waiting at the mouth of the alley, he knows. With one last shake of himself, he gets up and takes a final look around, before he nods for them to come and take her someplace safe.

Back in the car, Will tries to get the scent of carrion out of his nose as he waits for the lengthy hounding about his findings. As usual - Jack is a hound like no other, getting into the car beside Will and gunning the engine, the bang and rumble shuddering Will out of the last clutches of the echoing thoughts from the alley.

"Police are canvassing for an ID."

"Good," Will murmurs.

"What do you think?" Jack prompts. "Is this the same killer as any of our recents? Are we looking at a serial killer?"

"I'm not sure."

"That's not the right answer."

"I don’t know if it’s the Dockside killer, I don’t think it’s quite like anyone else we’ve seen around these parts. It feels… personal," Will frowns.

"Serial killings can't be?"

"I need to see the pattern, Jack. What are you going to do if I say I can't tell?"

Jack gives him a levelling look, and Will feels immediately cowed.

"Catch him," he booms.

"Give me something else. I can't magic him out of the air - if it even is a him."

Jack just shakes his head. "You usually have a better sense of them from less than this."

Will feels tangled in this one, part of the usual narrative concealed.

"There's no obvious motive, Jack, it's like he picked her out of a hat. It wasn't sex and it wasn't money, she was modestly dressed, not a poor part of town but she obviously didn’t have money - she was just in his way, almost."

"She was in his way," Jack repeats.

"Yes. Not physically, I don't think, she was middle aged, conventional looking, the fact there’s no one standing around gossiping says no one heard evidence of a carry on. So she was taken from her home, or killed _in_ her home, and she lived alone, and whoever did this to her kept her for maybe a few weeks, though I don’t necessarily think they killed her straight away. Whatever she did, it was enough that he wanted her to truly _suffer._ "

Jack nods, finally satisfied that Will has his nose to the earth, though he wears the same look of uneasy fascination he usually does when Will gets a whiff on a kill site. "Keep working on it."

"I always do."

After that, he's allowed his silence. He uses it to think about Lotte, wondering if she’s still at the museum. He'd love to see her face.

He glances thoughtfully at Jack.

"Could you have any results from the canvassing brought to the house? I'd like to draw up my own research at home."

"Not feeling well? You look a little peaky."

"As unwell as I ever do at these things."

An acknowledging silence at that: Jack has seen Will in enough panics, enough walking nightmare hazes, to know he’s… delicate.

"Very well," he agrees. After so many catches, he's tolerant these days of Will's eccentricities, as hard won as that leniency is. Will doubts he has any idea what it’s like to let yourself be infected by violence; to inhale the dark smoke of evil and let it choke you. He hopes he doesn’t, in any case.

Jack honks the horn on his car to clear the road, speeding up, and soon enough Will is getting out the car. He watches Jack disappearing around the corner before he redirects toward the museum - hopefully Lotte and Doctor Lecter will be somewhere close.

The streets he walks now are a world away from the alley, and Will tentatively starts to step out of the shadow of the new killer, letting the weak sun warm the back of his neck. Nevertheless, he feels eyes lingering there, a cold, creeping feeling. He wonders how he can feel simultaneously cold and feverish. Making a concentrated effort to take physical steps away, toward something lighter, sweeter, Will hurries.

*  
  


Incredibly, Lotte and Doctor Lecter are still at the museum, and Will finds them with the Pantheon marbles, Lotte diligently working in her exercise book. She abandons it and runs to him as soon as she sees him, face wreathed in smiles as she gets up and dashes to greet him.

"You said you had to go to work!"

"I did. I do. But I wanted to see you on my way home."

"I'm so happy you did." She beams.

"So am I. A thousand times happier now."

Doctor Lecter arrives silently behind her, holding her belongings.

"Doctor," Will murmurs, with a glance up. "I apologise for the interruption."

"No apology necessary. We took a detour through the park to feed the ducks, and so we’ve only just arrived ourselves. We were about to go and find the Egyptology room."

"If I could join you for a short time?"

"It would be our pleasure, wouldn't it, Miss Lotte?" He smiles down at her.

"Yes!" She appears to refrain from bouncing with great effort.

"Lead the way," Will tells her fondly.

He exchanges a glance with Doctor Lecter, who’s glowing with a visible sort of pleasure as they walk through the long corridor to the exhibition room. Will busies himself with reading the identification cards once inside, avoiding the exhibitions for as long as he can; what he might see in the sunken eye sockets of stolen dead.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Lotte take in the sight of the gleaming Sarcophagi; the long, stiff bodies inside. He sees her eyes widen, and senses her stiffen with fear.

"They are long dead, my darling," he tells her softly, though he can scarcely believe it himself. "You’re all right."

She looks up at him, brows furrowed, and Will silently takes her small hand in his own.

"You needn't fear the dead, Miss Lotte," Doctor Lecter adds, "they can't hurt you anymore."

Will watches her little chin firm. With a swallow, she takes hold of the Doctor's hand too, and they both let her lead them closer to the mummies, Will just about managing to rein in his embarrassment: he only knows that he's easily identifiable as her father.

She peers closer, mouth dropping open.

"What do you think, darling?"

"They look so peaceful," she whispers.

"I'm certain they are."

The Doctor distracts her, talking about gods and tombs, and Will watches him bewitch her with the images of ancient, gold adorned throne rooms and feels an unfamiliar swell of contentment as her fear dissipates entirely: she will have everything he does not.

After they've moved through the exhibit and onto ancient armour and weaponry, Will takes his pocket watch out and sighs at the time.

"Doctor Lecter, Lotte, I'm afraid I must go and do some battling of my own. Thank you for letting me tag along on your history lesson."

"Father," she smiles, lopsided like she knows begging won't work.

"I shall see you at dinner, I swear," he tells her solemnly, stroking her hair before he takes a reluctant step back. "Enjoy your afternoon," he tells them both.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive us if any of the formatting in this chapter is janky - issues were had. Y'all are way ahead of the curve with these murders, it's so cool to see. Murder mystery specialists we are not! Heh. 
> 
> Thank you so much for all the support so far, it's really meant a lot to us and we hope you enjoy this chapter. ♥

Will takes his leave of the museum quickly, taking the opportunity on the brisk walk home to breathe deeply; put distance between himself and the dead. He formulates a plan while he walks. He'll cross-reference files until Jack gets him a name, see if any patterns emerge between this kill and other recent ones; request records if there’s anything pertinent. He thinks about the exsanguination of the body, and wonders if there were marks from butcher’s hooks, but he imagines the coroners’ reports will tell him more. Those will be a day or so, at least: Jimmy Price and his team are excellent, pioneers in their field, but excellence takes time. 

By the time he gets to the house, there's a message waiting with Missus Cheswick from Jack - a Manila file with documents, photographs and witness statements.

Another note inside it regarding the woman in the factory warehouse, the one who had given birth to a flock of starlings. Character references from canvassing her cohorts where she worked at a local orphanage. Will studies the note, and attached statements, with interest. Well enough liked, by the looks, but the words _strict_ and _inflexible_ both make an appearance. Will isn’t sure precisely why that interests him. 

The next folder is this morning’s victim – no photos yet, it’s too soon, but successful identification by a witness. Coldness creeping over him, Will raises the birth certificate of one Edith Jameson and examines it.

Fingers tightening on the paper in the hallway, he closes his eyes, suddenly dizzy. "Surely not."

He goes to his office to check his letters, and sure enough, Alana's letter of recommendation, their correspondence - it's her, it must be. Jack is going to get the bit between his teeth about this one now, Will can picture it. He bites his lip, thinking of Lotte; the implication of Alana knowing Edith. He'll have to consider it now - both the personal connection, though he'd never met the woman, and that with Alana.

Alana. Were they friends? Should he tell her? Better that than from the newspapers.

He sighs and rubs his face; goes to the telephone on the landing. He dials the exchange for the Verger mansion, and listens to the trill until an attendant picks up.

"Good afternoon, it’s Detective Graham. Please apologise to Lady Verger for my rudeness, but I’ve called to talk to Miss Bloom with a matter of some urgency, please put her on the line."

Static crackles in the silence, with the potential to fill with whispers. When Alana comes on, it's obvious from her tone that she's alone.

"Mister Graham, what an unexpected pleasure."

"Ordinarily I'd agree," he murmurs.

"What happened?" She grows immediately concerned.

"I was called to a murder scene this morning. I believe you know the victim, and I wanted to be the first to tell you."

Her breath catches. "Edith-?"

"How do you know?"

"I haven't heard from her since she didn't show for your appointment with her. She said she’d let me know how she’d gone."

"So you speak regularly."

"More like occasionally, but - God, she's really gone?"

"Yes, Alana. I'm sorry."

"Murdered, I can't even imagine..."

"Don't. It'll certainly be all over the papers, but just - don't."

"God, her parents will be heartbroken..."

Will pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'll catch him."

This is why he doesn't like meeting the families. Last time he got close to a survivor, he'd plunged into a week's-long depression.

"Will..." her voice is choked with emotion. "Are you all right?"

"Just upset, thinking of Lotte," he admits, self-conscious of her being the one to ask _him_ , after the news he just dealt her.

"You’re worried she’ll find out?"

"No but - what if I'd hired her? What if Lotte had come to harm?"

"But you didn't, Will. She's safe. You're safe."

"I know it's not a kind thought," Will admits.

"It's a perfectly normal thought."

"Well, it extends to you, as well. This new spate of murders… I need you and Margot to be careful, all right? Keep away from people you don’t know. Just stay safe, do I make myself clear?"

"Yes sir," Alana whispers, and though she says it like a joke, Will can hear she’s touched - and incentivised - by his warning.

Will sighs. "I'll need to have Jack's people question you formally," he tells her.

"It won't be you?"

"I don't usually… unless you insist."

A little pause. She sighs. "It would make you feel better too."

"Very well. I'll inform Jack." The line crackles, and he sighs. "I'm sorry to call with bad news." 

"I appreciate it nevertheless, Will."

"Just let me know if you need anything, you or - or Margot."

She thanks him again; peppers him with a few more tentative enquiries about his wellness, which he fields as carefully as ever. Finally, he hangs up with a sigh, then goes to study the rest of the file.

His thoughts feel like a flock of migrating starlings, flick-book images of the body this morning, the enshrined, bound dead at the museum, Lotte’s bright smile when she’d seen him. Her little hands. Bloody stumps of arms, amputated at the elbows. Long, dried fingers, brittled and black with age. 

_Where are her_ _limbs_ _?_

Nothing about Edith Jameson matches her end. She's just a governess, from a good family; an educated spinster.

He closes his eyes, trying to think. He only knows that she's unexceptional; he'd have hired her if she'd have shown up for her interview. And then she'd have left in a few weeks, when Lotte had exhausted her, like so many times before. That's not what matters though, he realises. It's not about her, it's about savagery, about teaching her a lesson. A fresh wave of images flash through his mind, like rifling pages of a penny dreadful, filled with horror. Will falls deep into the flickering sound.

The telephone startles him out of it, making him scatter pages from his file. He stares at the desk for a few moments, then gets up to pick up the receiver.

"Uh – this is the Graham household."

"Will, tell me you got the folder I sent."

"Of course, Jack. And I ought to tell you now, I am familiar with the victim by name."

"You are? In what capacity."

"She was an acquaintance of Miss Bloom's, and had applied to be my governess. But we never met."

"You never met because-?"

"She never showed to our appointment, and someone else showed up who I deemed appropriate for the role. Miss Bloom had recommended her to me."

"So Miss Bloom -"

"She doesn't know anything, Jack. But I'll do a formal interview."

Jack, not entirely without the ability to pick up on cues, doesn't press why Will wants to be the one to interview her. 

"Very well. I'd like her statement by the end of the day tomorrow, if it's all the same to you."

"Of course. I'll go back to my notes now?"

"All right, Will."

Will rings off and sighs, leaning against the wall. He regrets this machine intensely: he hears enough disembodied voices as it is. It's always worse when they talk to him. Shuddering at the thought, he wipes a hand over his face, and hears a faint clearing of throat to indicate he's not alone. It's Doctor Lecter, immaculate and faintly smiling, standing at the top of the stairs.

"Good afternoon, Detective."

"Doctor," he says, flushing faintly: he’s almost certain he must have looked quite mad then.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, I merely wanted to let you know we were home. Lotte is having quiet time with her book in the library, I think she's quite exhausted."

"I - thank you. I'll be in my office if you should need me, I believe until dinner."

"Of course." He nods his head, and the silence stretches before Will realises he wasn’t finished.

"Something else, Doctor?"

"Forgive me for being forward, but I believe my medical expertise might be of use to you, in certain cases, and I wanted to extend the invitation to consult me on a non-professional basis, should the need arise."

"I - appreciate the thought, Doctor." He shifts. "We do have consulting medical staff for victims, specialists of all sorts."

"I was talking about you, Detective."

"Oh," Will murmurs. His face heats. "I'm not ill."

"You appear to have quite a headache," Lecter says politely.

"It's just – I didn’t sleep well, nothing to worry about."

"As you say. Will you still join us for dinner? I can instruct Cook."

"Yes, I'll be down at eight. Thank you," he adds. Doctor Lecter nods.

"Good afternoon, Detective."

Will shakes his head automatically as he walks away, almost agitated. The Doctor seems incredibly helpful. It's nearly too good to be true. Exhausted at the idea, Will takes himself back to his desk, where he makes notes on Edith Jameson’s murder until his head is swimming.

Eventually, he hears Cook call Lotte for dinner, and carefully closes his files and makes his way down to the dining room. Lotte's already at the table, book under the table on her lap, and Will stifles his smile as he taps her shoulder gently, bending to kiss the top of her head. 

"No books at the table, Charlotte."

"Father," she sighs. "I was by myself."

"I know. I know. Where's Doctor Lecter?"

"Right here," says a smiling voice. He's in the doorway again, having arrived as silently as he had before.

Will doesn't let him see him flinch, just sits at the table and pours himself some water with a grimace, then he fills Lotte’s glass, watching as she tucks her book away under her chair and smiles up at him.

"Tell me how your day was after the museum, Titch," Will prompts her.

"I was tired," she says, "but "Doctor Lecter let me read, and then we drew camels!"

"Camels." Will laughs.

"Egypt," the Doctor elucidates, sliding into his chair with a smile as a roll of thunder sounds abruptly from outside.

"Makes perfect sense, may I see later, Lotte?"

"Of course." 

They all quiet slightly as Cook serves the meal and the wind whips outside, churning up rain again. Will feels the chill of it gust down the chimney, disturbing the fire, and he gets up to adjust the grate, attention diverted momentarily as the rattle of rain against the windows intensifies.

"Where'd this storm come from?" he wonders.

"Pathetic fallacy, perhaps," Doctor Lecter muses.

Will gives the Doctor a long look, thoughts trickling into murky territory, but he just returns to the table and quietly fills his plate: Lotte doesn’t need to listen to a debate about who is writing their particular narrative. 

*

After dinner, when he can’t quite force himself to go back to the study, Will listens to Lotte practicing piano in the morning room while he reads in the library, the fire casting the room with gentle darkness, smoky and warm. As Lotte plays, the doctor occasionally counts out time for her in his soft accented voice, and with the low drone of the rain outside, it starts to lull Will, eyes heavying.

Cut from the shadows that pool at the corners of the room, Edith emerges, slow and purposeful. The stumps of her amputated arms scatter droplets of blood, her lacerated skin shining grey in the low light, footless shoes scutching across the floorboards. Her grey eyes move to his, and Will is gripped; paralysed. She lurches toward him, and he can't run.

"You'll never learn _your_ lesson, will you, Will Graham?"

His response freezes in his throat: she speaks in his voice.

"She's just like you…"

"Stop it," he whispers.

"… And we know it's too late for you."

"Stop it, stay away from her," he gasps, and then Edith transforms, and Lotte stands before him, her hands cut off at the elbows, her dress bloodied at the front. Will thrashes from his petrifaction, and panting, comes face to face with Doctor Lecter.

"Detective," Lecter says in a low, urgent voice.

"Where's Lotte-?"

"I asked her to run to the kitchen and order a tea tray," Lecter replies calmly.

Will swallows down the urge to run and find her, still taking great gasps of air. Lecter helps him sit up. 

"I had assumed you'd prefer to gather yourself before her return."

Will takes stock of himself, sweating, and shaking, and starts to smooth himself down helplessly. "Christ. I'm sorry," he tells the doctor. "This doesn't usually -"

"It's quite all right, Detective."

"Please," Will sighs, "you live in my house and you're a doctor, call me Will."

"Then I would insist you return the honour," Lecter replies. "It's Hannibal."

Will wets his lips. "I was - did I make noise?"

"A bit," Hannibal murmurs.

"God, did Charlotte see-?"

"No. Not much; I sent her away."

"I'm sorry, I'm a mess."

"You're troubled, Will."

"I had a nightmare, that's all." He looks fixedly at his hands. He doesn’t hear open disbelief in Doctor Lecter’s voice, but there’s an edge to his expression.

"It seemed vivid, almost like a delusion."

"It wasn't."

This time Will meets the man's eyes. Doctor Lecter’s are black in the dark, unblinking and calm. Will shudders to think of the dead blackbird from the night they met.

"How can you be sure, Will?"

"Because I- I fell asleep." Then he frowns. "You're accusing me of something, Doctor?"

"Not accusing, merely expressing concern."

"Thank you for your concern," Will says frostily, flinching at his own rudeness as Doctor Lecter tilts his head, gentling.

"Your work is stressful, it's only natural you feel its pressure well after the weight of it has lifted off you."

It hasn't lifted. Not at all.

"I suppose so."

"Miss Lotte's tea will do you good. Perhaps some sugar in it?"

"If you insist," Will mutters. He takes out his handkerchief and mops his face. He's trying not to feel a wave of embarrassment, but it’s nearly impossible when Doctor Lecter patiently starts to undo his tie and waistcoat. Regardless, Will lets him, too exhausted to try. _He's a doctor_ , he reminds himself. Nothing morethan that. And he seems genuinely worried.

Will is too used to it to feel worry anymore. He just endures the Doctor's patient turning and pulling until he's just in his shirt and braces, no shoes, feeling thoroughly underdressed but better for it. The Doctor moves to wet his own handkerchief in a nearby pitcher of water, applying it to Will's wrists like he's a swooning woman.

"I'm fine," he says hotly.

"I’m sure. Hold that there a few moments anyway." He withdraws gracefully to fill a glass with the remainder. Concentration caught by the clear sound of the water, Will sees Lotte appear in the doorway almost like another shadow of his nightmare, followed by Missus Cheswick. They have the tea tray on a little cart.

"Hello, Titch," Will sighs, forcing back the little foaming wave of fear that had started to gather momentum in the back of his throat again.

"Father," she says quietly. "You had a nightmare again?" 

"Yes, sweetheart, just a bad dream, I'm sorry if I frightened you." He leans down as Lotte moves toward him, her lashes dark with unshed tears of fear, hands fidgeting.

"You said my name, Father," she whispers.

"I'm sorry," he repeats, opening his arms for her. She crowds in and hugs him tightly, unresisting when he lifts her into his lap, savouring her warmth as much as he's stifling the shaking of his hands. "You didn't do anything wrong," he assures her softly, "sometimes while I'm sleeping, I worry about you, is all."

"I worry about you sometimes too," she whispers.

"You don't need to worry about anything at all." He rubs her back, brisk but gentling.

"Will? Perhaps some tea? There’s some milk for you, Miss Lotte." Hannibal has stepped over to pour.

Missus Cheswick has been shooed away, Will notes, accepting a cup whilst keeping Lotte balanced on one leg, reluctant to let her go just yet. He sips and watches Doctor Lecter stoop to tend the dwindling fire, the chill creeping into the room where its died down while Will slept. The Doctor is an efficient man. A seemingly unflappable man, giving them both space without being prompted, but maintaining a degree of watchfulness. It’s not what Will is used to, certainly.

He approaches now, taking Will's tea off him carefully and leaning in to look at his eyes, in his mouth. "I might need to fetch a thermometer, just to check your temperature."

"You will not," Will tells him. "I’m fine."

Doctor Lecter raises his eyebrows, just barely. Not a fan of being contradicted, Will supposes.

"Just to be on the safe side," he insists, pleasantly, and turns from the room, footsteps fading down the hall.

Will has been quite roundly ignored. Huffing, he peers at Lotte, who is still wide-eyed and earnest.

"He's just worried, Father."

"He barely knows me." He stops himself from saying "us" at the last possible moment.

"He's a doctor."

He's being scolded by an eight-year old now. "I thought you were on my side," he teases her.

"Most of the time," she dimples, "unless you’re being unnecessarily obstructive."

He sighs and strokes her hair, feeling a burst of fresh adoration for her when she leans her head on his shoulder. They're still in that same spot when Doctor Lecter returns, medicine bag under his arm and a clean thermometer in his hand.

"I hope this one has brandy in it," Will grouses.

"Perhaps afterward, if you are good."

Irritation waned somewhat, Will allows him to test his temperature with only a small huff, pulling a face at Lotte to make it slightly more bearable, relieved by her laughter. It is a long, silent pause until Doctor Lecter deems the thermometer ready.

"Quite warm," He deduces.

"Father," Lotte sighs.

"I'm fine, don't worry."

"Nothing an early night won't settle," Doctor Lecter assures. It's said too blandly to be pointed, but Will feels it is nonetheless.

"Doctor's orders?" He quips.

"Yes, if you like."

"Not exactly what I'd like."

Lotte scolds him again. "Father, you would tell me I had to go to bed if a doctor said-"

He shushes her gently. "Just so, love." He gives Doctor Lecter a dry look. "Anything else?"

"Finish your tea," he urges politely.

Will sighs and takes a sip while Lotte slides off his lap to go retrieve her glass of milk, and Doctor Lecter perches himself on an armchair, still watching Will. It’s less than comfortable, but not as objectionable as he otherwise might have anticipated.

"Doctor, have some tea," he instructs.

"Thank you, Will." He pours, and lightning cracks, illuminating the dim room for a moment. Everyone else in the room startles but him, Will assuring Lotte with a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. She smiles gently up at him.

"It's your bedtime," he tells her.

"Yes, Father."

"Allow me, Miss Lotte?" Doctor Lecter says, and both her and Will stiffen in surprise. She turns her gaze to Will, questioning, apprehensive. 

"No," he says quietly, finally, "thank you, Doctor."

His silence is considering, but he bows his chin, conceding. "Very well."

Will drains his tea. "Thank you for your assistance tonight." It’s a clear dismissal, but Doctor Lecter doesn’t move, simply taking a sip of his tea. 

"You're welcome. If you wouldn't mind, when you and Miss Lotte are finished, I have another matter I'd like to discuss."

"… Very well." Will stands and, contemplative, lifts Lotte to his hip. She is nearly too old for such things, but he thinks he never will be. Besides, like he was, she’s small for her age.

She's silent while he carries her upstairs to her room, and when he sets her down, she looks pensive. He touches her cheeks.

"I'm fine, don't worry."

"It's not that, Father."

He takes a breath, then sits down beside her. "Want to tell me?"

She bites her lip, so he waits for her to order her thoughts.

"Doctor Lecter only wants to help," she says finally.

"Yes, people always do."

"But I think he actually could, Father. He's very brilliant."

His daughter can already see the cracks in their family; in her father. As much as he tries, Will can’t quite curb the heaviness in his voice when he says, "That's enough now, Lotte. He's here to teach you, that's all."

She takes the correction fairly well. "I'm sorry, father."

"You don't need to be sorry, Titch, you didn’t do anything wrong. Get ready for bed. You need me to tuck you in?"

She nods, so he waits by the window while she gets ready in the washroom, then he pulls back the covers for her.

"Teeth brushed?"

"Yes, and my hair, and I washed my face."

"All right." He tucks the covers up around her, fluffing the pillows slightly.

"You're not sick are you, father-?"

"No, love. I'm just tired."

"Do you promise?" Her eyes are almost accusing as he turns off the overhead light.

"Yes. I do. Will you be all right with the storm? Just call if you need me, all right?"

"I will, Father."

"Good night, Titch." He kisses her forehead, and turns down the light by her bed, leaving the flame low, hovering a moment by the door before he makes himself close it over. 

He knows Hannibal will be waiting downstairs, but what he’s not expecting is for him to be pouring two measures of brandy from a bottle Will is sure didn't come from his liquor shelf. However, he accepts the snifter with a polite nod.

"You seem to be making yourself comfortable, Doctor," he observes.

"I believe a pleasant environment is much more restful for the mind and body."

"I wouldn't know."

"No?"

"Not much rest in this household, as you can probably tell."

"Charlotte too?"

"Charlotte too. She inherited my imagination, and she pays the price for it. Some months are worse than others, she hasn't been so bad recently."

"Thank you for telling me," Hannibal murmurs.

"It's fine," Will pauses, looking into the fire and accepting the glass the Doctor hands him. They stand side by side for a minute. 

"Charlotte's mother Lily and I were never married," Will confesses eventually, "her pregnancy was a secret from me, until she passed away giving birth to Charlotte. Her mother brought Charlotte to me, and lived here for a time while Charlotte was small, but she was unwell."

 _She hated me, and living here,_ he could add but doesn't.

Perhaps Doctor Lecter sees it in his face, because he dips his chin in understanding. "She passed away?"

"Yes, Lotte was only four, she doesn't remember her much."

"And since then, it's just been the two of you? No desire to marry?"

"No," Will sighs, and thinks of Margot Verger; the tangle he'd almost gotten into there. "I'd never intended to, honestly. Charlotte would be the only inducement to, but - we muddle along."

A moment's contemplative silence. Doctor Lecter takes a sip of his drink, hovering it under his nose for a moment and swirling to disrupt the bouquet.

"I've always been somewhat of a bachelor myself," he muses.

Will chances a look up from the rim of his glass. There's something there, weighing between them, and it would be easy to see, but Will is too afraid to overturn the rock to examine what crawls beneath. Instead, he sips his drink again.

"So what was it you wanted to discuss with me?"

"This wasn't the main matter, but you seemed upset when I wished to put Charlotte to bed, Will. I hadn't gotten the sense that you had a particular routine regarding that."

Will looks into the fire at length, then sighs and looks at him again.

"Lotte doesn't trust people easily, but when she does she can be blind with it. Her first governess left us abruptly, having been with us for three years. Lotte adored her, she was young and vibrant and she seemed to love Lotte - and when she left it broke her heart. She thought she'd done something wrong."

"You fear she might be becoming too attached?"

"People have things happen outside of their control that affect their abilities to honour certain promises," Will shrugs.

"You mean your job, and your commitment to Charlotte."

"I mean your commitment to her. Mine is unwavering."

Hannibal inclines his head. "You seek proof of mine, then."

"No, I just want Lotte to have a realistic expectation of relationships in her life."

Hannibal is quiet for a moment, then. "So you want her to keep me at a safe distance."

"It would be best."

The Doctor takes a sip of his drink. Will thinks perhaps he’s hurt by the implication, and unsure why that bothers him.Within the bubble of quiet, a crack of thunder in the distance startles Will.

"It's natural to want to protect the ones we love from pain, though letting them experience that pain can be healthy, in controlled ways."

"You don't have children, do you, Doctor?"

"No," he allows, "but I once had a sister."

Will doesn't ask how Hannibal felt about letting her feel pain, just levels him with a look until he sighs in acknowledgement.

"If this wasn't the main matter," Will moves on, "what was?"

"I wanted to ask you about your nightmares, and whether you usually have them with the fevers."

"That's a very specific question, Doctor."

"A medical one, I assure you."

Will sighs. "I suppose I have noticed the two coinciding. Along with the headaches."

"Headaches too. Interesting." The Doctor looks into his glass. "Were you a police officer before you were a detective?"

"Yes, why?"

"When did you move onto violent crimes?"

"About three years ago," Will thinks.

He can follow the doctor's train of thought. "You think my headaches are related to my work?"

"It's possible. I'd have to do some further observation."

"I don't need a diagnosis, I need my daughter educated."

"As you wish, Detective."

He doesn't seem to shrink from Will's snappishness. Instead, he gestures Will back into a chair by the fire; tops up his drink and then sits in its twin. They fall into quiet contemplation. The doctor’s eyes soon drift back to Will.

"How did you come to work for the department you do now?"

Will looks up. "Ill-timed outburst, honestly."

"Care to elaborate?"

Will already regrets mentioning it. "I was a police officer, like I said, for a few years. While Charlotte was small. There were murders happening, a spree of them, around Camden. It was - people were unsettled, and we were out in force. One night - I saw a man. I just knew it was him. I shouted to my partner to follow me, and he was confused but he listened. We chased him down and arrested him and it turned out I was correct. I was stabbed for my trouble, though."

"You looked at him and just... _knew_?"

"The killings had been performed by someone with what we thought was surgical knowledge, a la Jack the Ripper," Will explains, tiredly, "But there was something odd about that to me - these weren't organ exposures, it was about cuts. I saw him, and he had overalls on, smelled like blood. I'd seen his uniform before, he worked at an abattoir down near the locks. He was watching a woman - the killer at the time only seemed interested in redheaded women."

"That would have explained it all."

"It did, but there'd been no unusual activity reported about him, he seemed to have alibis - I was in deep trouble for a while, but I saw it. Jack Crawford believed me."

"And you were right."

Will weighs this carefully, and then decides to let it out: let Doctor Lecter see what he's really committing to. "I saw the murders in my head, like a pantomime," he whispers. "I understood what he wanted, as soon as I looked at him. I can do it for anyone. Any crime, any murder. Normal people as well, of course."

A pregnant silence. "An unenviable gift," the Doctor utters, finally.

"And you wonder why I have nightmares."

"Not so much, anymore."

"No, I imagine not." Will thinks the Doctor actually looks... concerned, not just intrigued. He's not entirely happy about this development, to his surprise.

"What about you?" He turns it on him. "What's your story?"

"Did we not cover this adequately in my interview?" The doctor's voice is light.

"Quid pro quo, Doctor."

"My earliest ambition was to be an artist," he replies slowly.

"What changed?"

"I did, I suppose." Will sucks his frustration out of the back of his teeth while the doctor sips his drink and continues. "I was adopted by my uncle after a period of time living in an orphanage. I needed time to regain equilibrium. Once I did, my curiosity grew as well."

"Your curiosity for what?"

"The workings of our bodies and minds."

"And what changed that?"

"It was about the time I started speaking again."

"Speaking?" Will frowns. "You stopped?"

"After my family died," Hannibal murmurs. "For some years. So you see, I do understand what it is to be a child who is… different."

Despite all his skepticism, Will can't see this as anything but what it is: a secret, traded for trust. Doctor Lecter wants a part of this family, however small. He firms his lips into a line and nods in acknowledgement.

"I know that she admires you greatly, Doctor."

"And you."

"I'm her father. One day she won't admire me."

"Is that your experience?" The doctor murmurs. Will sets his jaw.

"History repeats. My mother died when I was born."

"Yet medicine continues to improve," Doctor Lecter soothes.

"But fathers don't, as of yet." Another bit of truth for exchange.

"Not always," Doctor Lecter agrees, "though sometimes they make a leap."

Will sighs, looking back to the fire.

"She idolises you," the Doctor assures him.

Will knows. As much as he knows he's a false idol. "I just don't want to disappoint her."

"Such is the nature of love."

"We disappoint people we love?"

"We strive not to."

"Sounds like you think it's inevitable."

"We are, in fact, inescapably human."

"I suppose that's true."

The Doctor shifts, recrossing his legs. "Don't worry so much, Will."

"I'm afraid that's what I do."

"I see." He aims a smile in Will's direction. "We'll have to see what we can do about that, won't we?"

It's presumptuous. So why does it move him so? The Doctor looks so incredibly sincere, lips curved in a smile and his eyes warm and relaxed, blonde brows and lashes catching the light. He reminds Will fiercely of one of the death masks they'd glimpsed at the museum, smooth and pale and with the bones of his face delicately picked out in plaster, above such petty things as life and struggling, weighing the lives of others on great brass scales.

Eventually, Will stops staring long enough to finish his drink and sets the snifter down with a murmur of thanks.

"Time for that early night, Will," Hannibal informs him, Will’s name strange and rich in his rolling accent.

"Yes, quite." Feeling distinctly herded, he gets up and turns out the lights, pausing in the doorway to look back at the Doctor close behind him. "Thank you for the drink, Doctor Lecter."

"Thank you for the company – and for the last time, Will, I must insist you call me Hannibal, it seems only right when we’re sharing a home now. That is – if my trial period is over."

Will stalls, realising he’d almost entirely forgotten his initial skepticism that the doctor would be able to stick them out more than a week. He laughs helplessly. 

"Safe to say, I think it is. Thank you, uh, Hannibal."

"Good evening, Will."

They both nod a goodnight, and part ways on the landing. Alone in his room, Will replays their conversation over, and wonders. He's never met anyone like him before, and he supposes that's what he wanted. It's still disconcerting; and he's nearly impossible to read. With a sigh, he washes up for bed, thoughts lingering like the pervasive fog outside.


	6. Chapter 6

Will kisses Lotte goodbye the next morning and plucks his hat off the hatstand, resigning himself to yet another walk through the miserably misting weather that has enveloped London for the past days.

Normally she'd accompany him on this route, but today he hasn't told her where he's going, nor the nature of his trip. Alana will be expecting him, at least.

In fact it's she who answers the door, Marshall on her hip, his little face flushed as though from crying.

"Have I come at a bad time?" Will asks politely, although he has in fact come at the appointment time. Children, he knows, have no concept of appointments.

"Not you, just this refusal to go down for nap time." She steps back to let him in, without any of the formality he knows she'd extend to anyone else. "Margot is attending to business in the city, but I'll be with you soon, if you've got time to wait?"

"I know where the study is," he says with a faint tone of irony.

Her look of flat deploration makes him smile grimly. They part ways in the hall, and a maid offers Will tea.

"Coffee, if you've got it, please."

She nods, and he proceeds to the correct door, firmly shut as he expected, but not locked.

If this was his house, he suspects he'd keep it locked. But neither Alana nor Lady Verger have his ... special talents of imagination.

The study remains much unchanged from the last time he was in here, still with tasteful, modern decor and a great desk dominating the room. The only thing that's changed is the portrait that used to overlook the proceedings within. Will wonders if they burned the one of Mason. He would have.

The maid returns with coffee, and Will sits down in one of the stately leather armchairs to sip it while he waits. He wonders who painted the portrait of Margot and Marshall, and how often Alana comes in here to look at it. Probably not often, with the actual Marshall to chase around. Will, however, is free to look at it at length. The painter had an exceptional eye. Margot's expression of brittle strength is perfect.

Will tears his eyes away when he hears the door open, and stands immediately to receive Alana. She's taken a moment to freshen up, and she looks pale but composed, her dark lashes and rouged cheeks holding his attention for a moment.

"A shame to be here under the circumstances," Will offers, aware his social decorum can occasionally miss the mark and doing his best to patch it with Alana. "How are you?"

"As well as I can be, I suppose," she replies, seating herself in the mate to his armchair and waiting for him to join her.

He does so, folding his hands in his lap. "I'll try to keep this as brief as possible."

He doesn't need to consult any notes, with his memory, but he takes it slowly, walking her back through her acquaintance with Jameson.

"We trained together," Alana confirms, "though our acquaintance was always just that - not close."

"Yet you respected her credentials enough to recommend her. Do you have any other contacts who have employed her?"

"Yes, her last family. They recently moved to France but I have their forwarding address." She pulls a piece of paper out of her pocket. "I thought you would ask."

"Thank you, Miss Bloom." He takes it, folding it to put into his breast pocket. "And when was the last time you spoke to Miss Jameson?"

"Face to face, or by correspondence?"

"Both."

"Face to face? Five years at least." She frowns. "I wish I could be more helpful."

"You're being plenty helpful. When was the last time you heard from her in writing?"

"I brought that too."

"May I see it?"

Alana hands him the folded paper. It's dated from the day she failed to meet Will's appointment.

Will scans over the contents briefly. It is a fairly standard letter between acquaintances, when it comes down to it. Nothing impressive, or significant. No tells. Just the faint scent of lavendar. He thanks Alana anyway.

"I'll write to her employers too, just in case. Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt her, for any reason?"

He knows she'll say no even before she does.

"Absolutely not."

Will nods sadly. "Thanks, Alana."

"I'm sorry I can't be of more help."

"I know, but - you've done all I could ask."

"Would you keep me updated?"

Will nods. "I will, I promise. It might be slow going, though, so just - be warned."

"Of course. Thank you." She rises, and Will does too.

There's an awkward pause. They're keeping a respectable distance, and Will thinks dryly of how it might look, to an outsider. In reality, it's respect: Will has no intention of making one of the two women Mason Verger traumatised feel caged in, especially in the circumstances.

"Would you like to wait a while, say hello to Margot?" Alana continues, politely.

"I'm afraid I can't," he says apologetically. "I'd like to see you both again sometime soon, though. Thank you properly for all your help recently."

"You know it's our pleasure."

"I know," Will agrees. "You're a kind woman, Alana."

"Relative term," she muses.

"I wouldn't use it if it wasn't the one I wanted," Will assures her.

"In that case, I'll just thank you."

"I suppose I will just say you're welcome, then." They exchange slightly warmer smiles, now, and he follows her back out to the entrance hall, where the butler hands him his hat and coat.

"Thank you," Will tells him, putting both back on before turning to Alana, inclining his head. "And for your time, Miss Bloom."

"Of course, Will." She watches him step back out into the rain with a pinched face.

He hesitates. "What is it?"

"I just hate this weather," she says with a rueful smile.

"Appropriate," Will reasons. He shrugs. "It's not my favorite either, but - here I go anyway."

"As always," Alana says knowingly. She closes the door on him with a smile.

A large blackbird swoops across the front walk in front of him, cawing. Will squares his shoulders and walks back into the rain. It occurs to him suddenly, as he turns over the just-completed interview in his mind, that Hannibal Lecter had been a correspondent of Edith Jameson's as well. He must remember to interview him about that. If only he thought it would prove to be of use.

//

"Go upstairs and get your coat, please, Miss Charlotte," Hannibal tells his pupil, gently shutting the history book she's been reading him. She jumps up at once, having already had a few warnings of the time: she needs to know the day's itinerary before they get started, Hannibal has found, to avoid anxiety. He'd outlined it for her over breakfast, her father listening silently from the head of the table: piano this morning, a customary visit to the park, lunch and then Mathematics and Biology this afternoon.

Other days, they read Latin instead of piano. She really is a remarkable child. But today, her slow steps indicate hesitation to attend her lesson. Hannibal checks his pocket watch as he waits at the bottom of the stairs, umbrella handle clasped under his gloved hands - a charming but slightly eccentric affair with a parrot-head handle. When Lotte joins him, he tilts his head, waiting for the explanation.

"I wanted to bring the Bach pages you gave me last week," she says, looking at her little leather boots. "Mister Budge gives me baby songs."

"I can't see why Mister Budge would object, we'll ask him."

She nods, handing him the pages as she buttons her little blue coat. Hannibal notes that she's near to growing out of it.

Tucking the music pages into his briefcase, he checks she's smart before he opens the door, startled as ever when Lotte immediately grasps his hand. He's honestly not sure the last time he's met a child so sweet - or maybe he is. He smiles down at her before he hands her into the carriage.

It's hard not to read her father in the tilt of her head. Today she's quiet, gazing out the window with her fingers making chords against her knee.

"Did you sleep well, Lotte?" he murmurs.

"I had to read a while before I could relax," she shrugs, "did you, Doctor Lecter?"

"Quite well, thank you."

"That's good." She looks out the window again, then bites her lip. "Father didn't."

"I know." Hannibal has heard him, more often than not; he wasn't sure if Lotte could as well. She gives a soft sigh.

"He likes me to pretend I don't notice."

"He doesn't want you to worry."

"Would you worry?" she asks.

"At your age, Miss Lotte, you should not be worrying. Your father is an adult, he's the one who gets to do the worrying."

"He's all I have, Doctor," she says sweetly. His heart feels arrhythmic for a second, and he lets himself embrace the new, sharp fear of her unhappiness, entranced by it.

"Let me make you a proposition then, little Lotte." He leans toward her, steepling his fingertips. She mimics him immediately, without seeming totally aware of it. "You allow me to look after your father, and worry about him, and in return, all you have to do is commit fully to your studies."

"Would you?" she breathes, face turning sunny. "None of the governesses ever cared to."

"It would be my pleasure."

"I think you mean it," she muses.

"I always say what I mean," he promises her, "I'll never lie to you, Miss Lotte."

She regards him silently before holding out a small hand. He shakes it seriously, then tugs gently on a sable curl.

She giggles, reaching automatically to do the same before catching herself, folding her hands back into her lap, leaning back in her seat once more. She bites back a further smile, but he knows she's back in a cheerful mood, for the time being at least.

*

At the music shop, some of her shyness creeps back in with Mister Budge, and he gives her a cool smile of greeting.

Hannibal is overwhelmed by scent in here as always , varnish and wood and resin, horsehair, olive oil, so many smells, all earthy with age and treatment. He closes his eyes for a moment to read the aroma, cataloguing every component and opening his eyes when he finally puts his finger on one in particular, newer than the rest: decomposition.

Not a completely strange scent, in a shop that supplies gut strings, but there’s something else to it – pungency, freshness, brine. The high stink of meat too long in wax paper that Hannibal so often comes across during his work. What is it doing here?

An easy question to answer. Tobias Budge has the likeness of a taxidermy hawk, dull-eyed, always searching for his next victim. Hannibal wonders what his basis for selection is.

"Mister Budge, might I have a word?" He enquires, with effortless cheer.

"Certainly. Miss Graham, go and start your warm ups. I'll join you shortly."

He's no more cordial with Hannibal when they stop in the small lobby.

"Miss Lotte has been playing a slightly higher calibre of music at home than she's been looking at in lessons," Hannibal tells him, with no small amount of pride, "I brought the sheets we've been working on."

"I'm sure I don't have to explain to you the foundation blocks of study," the other man sniffs.

"Certainly not." Hannibal gives him a crisp smile, eyes moving over him, acknowledging his corresponding awareness of Hannibal in turn. "I'm sure you're aware that different children flourish with different kinds of goals, too. Miss Charlotte makes slow progress in your lessons because she is bored. At home, she plays Bach, and never misses a note."

He watches something shift in Budge's eyes. "Regardless, only one of us has been employed as her piano tutor."

"And of course to that end, I have no doubt you're aware of your responsibility to provide a level of study suitable to a student that is effectively your employer, no?"

"Very well," Budge says icily, "I will hear her Bach."

"Much obliged, Mister Budge." Hannibal hands over the sheets, tone light and pleasant. "This is a charming shop, you provide a tuning service, do you not?"

"As do we all."

"I've provisionally retuned the piano at the house, but I daresay it needs a more expert eye than mine."

"Feel free to engage mine," Budge replies, but his own tone is still chilly.

"Thank you. I’d like to take you up on that. Do you have any availability this week?"

"I do, I can come this afternoon, in fact, if that would be sufficient."

"So long as it’s before dinner, it would. I’ll have the housekeeper show you in, I may be engaged in lessons." Budge bows his chin in agreement, and Hannibal fancies the opportunity to be in their home excites him; there’s an acerbic edge to his scent now which he thinks is adrenaline. "Your strings, are they gut?"

"They are."

"And do you treat them yourself, Mister Budge?" Hannibal asks.

As far as subtlety goes, it misses by a country mile, but Budge still seems to preen under the pleasure of being known.

"I do. I suppose, being a Doctor, you have plenty of experience of your own, with gut. Miss Graham tells me you used to be a surgeon."

Just as pointed. Hannibal feels the prickle of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

"I did. Though not for some time now. My creative efforts are more effective in a domestic setting, nowadays."

"You never yearn to pick up the knife?"

"Only when it comes to preparing dinner."

The pleasure disappears, then, and Budge’s expression flickers to a sneer. "I’m sure. You traded in your curiosity to become a nanny. You must feel very accomplished."

Hannibal lets his own eyes go flat. "I contain multitudes, Mister Budge, and I am proud of my position."

"Yes, I can see that."

"I hope you can. I'm extremely devoted." He wets his lips. "To Miss Charlotte's education, and her happiness and wellbeing."

Budge nods. "On that note," he says, a note of mirthless amusement in his voice at the pun, "I should see to it that Miss Graham gets her Bach."

"Thank you." He watches Mister Budge go with a small chime of delight ringing in his mind, fascinated by his obvious contempt. He really shouldn't be teaching children. He really shouldn't be teaching anyone.

Easy enough to divert Will from him; Hannibal has already planted the idea.

Decided, he watches Lotte start her concerto from the doorway. She's exceptional, as he knew she would be. She's been practicing so hard, determined to play it for her father soon. Hannibal's pride for her takes him by surprise. But he is proud.

The sound of Budge's voice shaping the word "nanny" springs to mind, needling. Even so, he'd be proud to be Lotte's nanny. To give her the knowledge she craves and the praise she deserves.

At the end of her lesson, he accepts her hand as always and walks them out into the chilly morning, letting her percolate in some well-earned quiet after so much noise and concentration. He's concentrating as well.

Overhead, in the trees that overhang the pavement, crows start to gather as they walk, migrating slowly down the road in bursts of short flight. More join, and then more still, eerily silent. Hannibal pays them no mind.

There's no conversation until they get to the park, when Lotte sits on a park bench and regards the duck pond seriously for a while. Then she looks up.

"Doctor, do you like us?"

"I like you very much, Lotte," he assures her easily, honestly.

She ducks her head and smiles. "And Father?"

"Yes, and Detective Graham. I greatly admire him." Truthfully, he's never been so fascinated by another person. Though that might be outside of the realms of propriety, to share with his daughter.

Lotte is smiling already, though. "I like you too," she tells him. Then she frowns up at the sky. "It's getting cloudy, we'll have to go home."

He looks. "I have an umbrella."

"It will have to be quite a good one," she says.

That makes him chuckle. "I suppose it is nearly time for lunch."

She wrinkles her nose. "Cook will serve turnips again, I'm afraid."

He's unable to stifle his faint displeasure. Lotte sees it, bright girl that she is.

"My grandmother hired her," she explains, "I don't think father has the heart to tell her all her food tastes like brown."

Hannibal has to smile. "It rather does. Shall I attempt to solve that little problem, Miss Lotte?"

"How would you do that?"

"Why, I'll talk to her, of course. A simple conversation often solves problems."

Lotte looks dubious at that. "I trust you."

"I'm glad to hear it." He dusts a little lint off her coat. "Now, would you like to feed the ducks before we go?"

She nods, as expected, and he gives her a coin and lets her run off, following at a slower pace. The sky over the crown of far off buildings is gathering grey clouds again. It looks like grey velvet, like he could smooth his fingers over the nap of it. Instead, he soothes through Lotte's curls. She's running back and forth between him and the ducks now, cheeks hectic pink with the activity. She may need to rest after luncheon.

"We'll have to bring a kite with us next time."

"Could we make one?" she asks.

"Absolutely, that sounds excellent."

They smile at one another in accord for a moment. "Shall we?" He offers his hand. He's coming to enjoy the way she takes it trustingly.

When she's decoated and settled at home, Hannibal sets her up with quiet reading and goes down to talk to the Cook. He did promise Lotte, after all. She's bustling in the kitchen, shining cutlery at the island with hot water and vinegar.

Hannibal takes a moment to look over the kitchen – modest but comfortable in size and well-furnished with dishes and appliances, all very well taken care of. In the walkthrough behind the back door there’s a great pantry, the door ajar and the shelves amply stocked. Beyond, a combination utility room and butler’s pantry. In the far corner of the kitchen, with the dark wood cabinets, there’s a cellar door. Below, Hannibal supposes the generator and boiler are housed, as well as dry stores.

Everything is gleaming white and emerald tile, the stove and old-fashioned fireplace furnished with copper. Clean, and smelling of flour and nutmeg. It’s a very fine kitchen indeed, if not for the food which comes out of it.

From the island, Missus Henderson fixes him with an even look. "Doctor."

"Good afternoon Missus Henderson, grave weather today, is it not?"

"Can't say I've noticed."

"I wouldn't recommend looking for yourself."

"Well now, maybe I might and maybe I ain't."

He hesitates, perplexed by her hostility. "As is within your rights. I actually came to make an enquiry, providing it doesn't infringe on any of your duties today."

"Guess we'll find out."

"Lotte had a particularly good piano lesson, and as a reward for her hard work I was hoping to teach her how to make Bismarck."

"Oh, no. Do you see how lovely and clean it is in my kitchen? I don't need a _man_ and that little stripling in here disordering everything."

Hannibal tilts his head. "I've kept my own kitchen before, I can assure you that you'll find it just as you left it."

She sniffs. "It's not your place."

"Excuse me?"

"I said what I meant." She turns away.

A moment's terse silence, the acrid sting of vinegar in the air holding his attention for a moment, only just masking the damp lingering of stewing vegetables, and then Hannibal smiles. "I'd argue that it is my place, as Lotte's governor."

"You're as temporary as all the rest, then."

"Arguably all roles are temporary," Hannibal points out, "though your confidence in me is flattering."

"Go back to your schoolroom, governor. The little miss doesn't need cookery lessons from the likes of you."

Struck, Hannibal tilts his head. The word 'odious' drifts into his mind. Once there, it curls like a plume of smoke. It’s indulgent, certainly spur-of-the-moment, but Hannibal has been mulling this impulse for some time, and now his instincts lock like the interconnecting teeth of a safe lock.

"Missus Henderson," he says calmly, straightening up, "I'm afraid you're being rude."

"Oh, am I?" She moves back to the sink, unconcerned.

"You are." He moves too, to the island and its sea of shining metal.

"You damn foreigners are all the same," she mutters.

"Madam, I assure you," he murmurs, leaning gracefully forward to make his selection, "we really are not." He looks over his shoulder, and then steps up behind her. "At least, none are like me."


	7. Chapter 7

Will steps into the house, waterlogged and thankful to be out of the cold. His house is quiet, though there is a delicious smell wafting through the foyer. Missus Cheswick comes to take his coat, smiling at him encouragingly when he gives her a greeting. "Is Lotte upstairs?"

"Yes, she's reading. The doctor said she'd earned time to rest; apparently they had a busy day."

"I'll go and see to her, thank you, Missus Cheswick."

"Mister Graham, there's something else."

He glances back up at the tone in her voice. "Yes?"

"Missus Henderson has unexpectedly handed in her resignation."

The cook. How bizarre. "To you?"

"She left a letter, her things are gone."

"May I see it?" Will asks. His confusion is peppered with an uncharitable dash of relief.

"Of course. I found it in her room, didn't even hear her leave." She hands it over.

"I'll take it to my study, thank you -" he pauses mid-stride, "Missus Cheswick, who's cooking? You?"

"Doctor Lecter offered to step in," she shrugs.

Curious. He looks to Missus Cheswick again. "Very well," he says. "Any other news?"

"Doctor Lecter had the piano tuned," Missus Cheswick says. She doesn’t precisely look disquieted, but Will senses something in her clasped hands.

"By Tobias Budge?"

"Yes." He waits, and she relents, "A most unusual man."

"He is interesting, to say the least. Did it go all right?"

"It did, Mister Graham." She still looks disturbed, the fine skin around her eyes and mouth pinched, and Will hates to see it on her. He leans forward and touches her shoulder lightly.

"What is it?"

"It’s just – with all these murders, these awful things, letting him into the house had felt – he's, what’s the word, Mister G? He’s intimidating."

He knows she wouldn’t say such a thing if she weren’t genuinely concerned, and he acknowledges that there have been many changes around here, all at once. Enough to make anyone feel unmoored.

"If you would prefer it, I’ll ask that no work be done while I’m out of the house. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable," he promises her.

"Thank you, Mister Graham."

"Don’t worry. Thank you, Missus C." He watches her go through to the sitting room, only faintly reassured by her grateful smile. Tobias Budge, in his home. His Cook absconded in the course of a day. He wonders if the two are somehow related. Surely not.

He pauses again, at the sheer madness of the matter, and goes slowly into the kitchen.

It smells even better inside, and Doctor Hannibal Lecter is at the center of it, coat off and a pristine white apron wrapped around a trim waist.

"Doctor," he says, embarrassment choking him for a minute that his daughter's governor should feel him so inept at keeping staff he's decided to take matters into his own hands. He's still holding the letter, folded in front of him like a paper shield. He can feel his face heat.

"I thought we'd decided to use Christian names now, Will."

"I - yes, I'm just… taken aback, frankly. You cook?"

"I do, quite well, if my friends are to be believed." He nods gracefully at the paper in Will's hand. "Have you read that?"

"Yes. I had no idea she was going to leave."

"Neither did I, she had packed up while Miss Lotte and I were at the park. Missus Cheswick was doing the shopping." He inclines his head slightly. "I admit she was not fond of me, so I largely avoided the kitchen."

"She isn't fond of anyone," Will mutters, looking at the letter in disbelief again. He reads it through this time. "She does mention you here."

"Does she?"

"'Interfering in women's business?'" Will quotes dryly.

"Oh, in what way?"

"She doesn't say. Care to enlighten me as to your opinion?"

"She seemed unhappy at my request to use the kitchen for home economics."

"That does seem a reasonable enough request, Doctor." Will looks the letter over again before sighing and folding it away into his breast pocket.

"She obviously didn't agree." Will watches him chop something and scrape it into a pan. Then he looks up. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience to you, of course, Will. But I have no hesitation about handling the kitchen duties for you and Lotte."

"That’s very kind, Hannibal, but it’s not necessary. I'll put a notice in the paper tomorrow, regardless," Will mutters.

"If I might ask you to let yourself enjoy dinner first?" Hannibal murmurs back. He gives Will the oddest smile, sort of imploring. It looks like something he might have picked up from Lotte. It's not the first time Will has noticed him echoing her. Or himself, really.

"What are you making?" he asks stiffly, eventually.

"Veal osso bucco," Hannibal replies. "It's been braising for over an hour. I have part of a bottle of wine left, if I might tempt you into a glass before dinner."

Truly, he is the strangest governor Will has ever met. Still, he nods. "I heard our friend Mister Budge was here today, also."

"He was, though I only saw him briefly. He arrived just as Missus Cheswick was returning from the market, so she showed him in. Good of him to make time for us this afternoon, on such short notice."

"Hm. All right. I have to go and see to Lotte," Will says.

"Of course. Bring her down in about half an hour, if you would be so kind?"

Will looks down at his glass, then sets it down. "Of course. I'll have that with dinner, if you don't mind, Doctor."

"I'll keep it in the icebox for you." Hannibal inclines his head politely and goes back to his gratin.

Feeling slightly guilty, Will goes upstairs. Seeing Lotte will soothe him. It always does. He knocks on her door quietly. Her piping voice invites him in.

He smiles at the sight of her. Perched among the pillows of her bed, the coverlet spread with books. She's scribbling away in her exercise book, another open in her lap.

"What are you working on, Titch?"

"Doctor Lecter gave me some exercises for arithmetic." She smiles. "We made Dutch babies for lunch!" Then she goes serious. "You've heard about Cook."

"Yes, I didn't realise she was so unhappy. I wish she'd told me, maybe we could have fixed it."

Lotte fixes him with an uncomfortably adult look. "You didn't like her enough for that, Father."

"Yes, well." He sighs. "It doesn't matter now, mm? Did you see her before she left?" She shakes her head. "All right. Never mind, I suppose."

"It's all right," she tells him sweetly. "Doctor Lecter will take care of us."

Will isn't sure why the words make him swallow a knot of uncertainty. "Yes," he nods, "I'm sure he will."

But she only smiles. "I love you, Father. Thank you for letting him stay."

How can he resist that? "You don't have to thank me."

"But I will."

He puts an arm around her carefully. "I love you."

Lotte leans her head on his shoulder. Will holds her tighter, just briefly, and then lets go. He checks his watch.

"Dinner is in twenty minutes. Would you like me to read to you until it's time to go down?"

"Will you?" Her eyes go bright.

He nods, smiling. "Pick a book, darling."

She selects it immediately from her bedside, and wraps her blanket over both their laps. He drapes an arm around her and lets her turn the pages. It's absorbing enough that they both startle when Missus Cheswick knocks on the door.

"Dinner is served," she tells them.

Ruffled, Will spends a few seconds making himself, and then Lotte, look more tidy. "Come on, Titch." They walk downstairs hand in hand.

In the dining room, the table is set with the special silverware and crockery; sets Will received as heirlooms. A silver bowl spills heavy-petaled flowers over the center of the arrangement. Will looks it all over in shock, and then herds Lotte to her seat. At that moment, Hannibal appears from the kitchen door with a large silver tray, apron gone and his suit jacket replaced and impeccable. He smiles, closed-mouthed and somehow still warm.

"Good evening, Will, Miss Lotte. Thank you for indulging me the opportunity to show off a little."

"Doctor Lecter, my governesses always said that showing off is naughty."

"On the contrary, showing off - at least in moderation - allows us to gauge which behaviours are acceptable, which aren't, and it allows us to discern for ourselves who we most want to impress." He sets the tray down between her and Will, and starts to serve Lotte. She looks thoughtful. Will knows he looks dubious.

"You want to impress us, Doctor Lecter?" Lotte asks.

"Have I?" He smiles again. His eyes flick to Will.

"I find myself continually impressed by your capabilities," Will tells him.

"Then my showing off has been worth it." He stage-whispers it to Lotte, making her giggle.

Will senses he missed a pertinent conversation somewhere along the line, however, as Hannibal serves him, he is distracted by the utter beauty of the plate. "This looks... exceptional," he murmurs. And it's true. It does.

"Thank you, Will." He veritably beams as he serves himself and sits down.

Will closes his eyes for a moment. He recognises an unfamiliar feeling creeping across his skin. His ears feel hot when he finally starts on his dinner, frowning to himself over the first mouthful, more delicious than anything has any right to be. The doctor, seeming observant but mostly quiet, joins him once Will starts. Across the table, Lotte is beaming softly to herself.

It's a quiet dinner, interrupted mostly by the pops of the fire and the hiss of an icy rain outside. Eventually, Will has to concede, "This is absolutely delicious, Doctor."

"I'm grateful you think so."

"I'm grateful my cook left," Will jokes. "Though, I'm afraid I'm giving you the most shockingly bad impression of my household management skills."

"I feel fairly well managed, and Missus Cheswick has been here since Lotte was born, has she not?"

"Yes," Lotte pipes up. "And Cook worked here since I was two!"

Will nods. "She did, yes."

Hannibal takes another bite, and nods. "So I have been told." He adds, after a moment, "A long time to endure boiled turnips."

Lotte stifles a giggle. Will more successfully keeps a straight face. "Sometimes it was cabbage," he reasons.

"Boiled, I presume."

Now Will smiles slightly. "Of course." He takes another bite of his dinner, and sighs. "The meat, what is the taste it has? It's unusual."

"Ah, that'll be the marinade for the veal."

"Very nice," Will shrugs. He knew he had ordered some from the butcher, but it doesn't taste exactly as he expected. He's so used to simple food. This is... like being at one of Jack Crawford's Christmas events for the troops at Scotland Yard. Only much more cozy.

He feels comfortable, he realises, pausing with his fork hovering near his mouth. It's so rare these days. He catches Hannibal's enquiring gaze, and shakes it off. He needs space from this, but it doesn't mean he's not finding enjoyment in it. He keeps eating; keeps watching Lotte eat.

When they're finished, Missus Cheswick clears the table, and Lotte pipes up. "Father, I played my Bach perfectly for Mister Budge today."

"Did you? I'm so proud. May we hear it again after dinner, or are you too tired?"

She shrugs a shoulder up. "I can try."

"Whatever you like, darling." He stands. "Doctor Lecter, that was wonderful, thank you."

"My pleasure. Perhaps I might join you a bit later in the library? Or do you prefer a family evening?"

"No, you're welcome to join us." He pauses, and when Lotte gives him an affirming look, adds, "You're part of our family now, Doctor."

He watches the man's smile light his eyes like embers. Something like emotion there, under plain pleasure. It's carefully encapsulated.

"Come along," Will tells Lotte before they can talk about it further, "I think we have time to read a little more." She takes his hand, and he spares a glance more for Hannibal before leading her away.

In the study, he takes off his jacket and waistcoat and sits with Lotte by the fire, and after she plays, they read her book. He eventually sees Hannibal in the doorway out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't stop reading. The doctor hovers for some time. Against his side, Lotte is still, and quiet, and when Will looks her eyes are closed. Asleep. Carefully, he sets the book aside.

"She's wonderful," Hannibal murmurs, coming finally to pour himself and Will a glass of brandy and passing his over before he seats himself in the armchair across from them.

"Yes," Will says quietly. "I ought to take her upstairs."

"It's early, she might still wake up."

Will nods in acknowledgment, looking down at the glass in his hand.

"You worry about her seeing you drink?" Hannibal enquires.

Yes. "No." An intrigued look. "Can I have no secrets from you, Doctor?"

"As many as you wish."

"Rather fewer, it seems."

"It's entirely up to you if that is to be the case."

They meet one another's eyes. Will sips his drink. "She just worries, because her grandmother drank a lot."

"I see." Hannibal considers his own glass, and then nods. "She associates her grandmother's ill temper with her drinking?" If it's a guess, it's a good one.

"I think she just mistrusts anything that gives people leeway to acting unpredictably," Will says mildly, stroking a bit of her hair back.

"I see."

Will shrugs. "So I try to keep things predictable. With my job… it isn't easy."

"I can see how it would be nearly impossible."

"I've always relied on the staff," Will says pointedly.

"Have I failed to install stability?"

"On the contrary, you seem eager to do so."

"I am eager to give Miss Lotte everything she needs. I would like to release her from my care ten years from now as a confident young woman who knows how valuable - and valued - she is."

Will feels the same pang in his chest as always, when he thinks of his daughter growing up. "That's a good goal," he murmurs. And a confident one.

Hannibal circles his drink under his nose, then smiles and sips. Will gets the feeling he just passed some sort of test. He sips his own drink with a sigh.

"You'd be... satisfied, working with Lotte for so long?"

"I believe I would."

Will can't help but think he'll change his mind. All the others have. Because of Lotte, because of him...because of them. He grimaces at the thought. He hopes he won't lose Missus Cheswick as well, after all these years, but he just can't be sure. She's always seemed happy enough. He treats her with respect. And she's never judged him for his… idiosyncrasies. Or Lotte.

Looking down at her, he sees her stirring slightly. He quickly sets his drink aside. "Charlotte," he whispers, "are you ready for bed?"

"I think I just had a busy day," she whispers.

"You did, Miss Lotte," Hannibal says quietly. She gives him a little smile, shy with her tiredness.

"Bedtime," Will tells her.

"Will both of you come say goodnight?" she asks.

Will pauses again, and something sharp and hot needles at his heart. He waits for Hannibal's reply. "Of course, Miss Lotte."

"Of course," he echoes.

They both walk her to her room, Will feeling distantly irate over the fact. He keeps it behind his teeth, however, and Lotte climbs into bed with a yawn.

Hannibal steps up first, neatening the covers and tucking a curl behind her ear. "Goodnight, Lotte. Sleep well."

"Good night, Doctor Lecter."

Will watches the doctor withdraw to the door as he sits on the edge of the bed. He sets Lotte's book on her bedside where he brought it with them. "You know where I am if you need anything, titch."

"Yes, Father. Goodnight."

"Goodnight," he whispers, and leans to kiss her forehead. She smiles, eyes already closed, hugging a spare pillow.

When Will closes the door behind him on the landing, Hannibal is waiting outside. He's expressionless but still somehow expectant. The rain drums at the window behind him.

"I have work to do," Will says crisply.

"Of course," Hannibal murmurs. The shadows of the dark landing make him look like a skull. "I hope I'll see you at breakfast tomorrow. Is there anything you'd particularly care for?"

"Don't worry, Doctor Lecter, I'm sure I can manage to sort something-"

"I insist."

"Thank you, again," Will says uncomfortably.

"It's no problem. I very much like cooking for you."

"It may conflict with your duties regarding Charlotte," Will reminds him.

"If you think so," Hannibal says.

"I'll write up an advert tonight," Will says. "Good night, Doctor."

"Good night," Hannibal murmurs. "Sleep well."

Will represses a snort of doubt. "You as well." He leaves Hannibal then, a skull looming in the dark.

*

That night, the birds that have recently swirled through Will's dreams are joined by silent rows of willowy marble maidens, funeral statuary with grieving faces that all look like Charlotte. He touches one, to see if the tears are real, and it cracks under his fingers. Overhead, a crow caws, and Will runs, stumbling over clods of frozen dirt, but he never seems to reach the crest of the hill.

*

After a night of fitful sleep, the breakfast Hannibal serves the next morning is decadent enough that it nearly makes him forget it. He isn't sure how Hannibal summoned this from the paltry depths of his kitchen but he's astonished. He looks as impeccable as ever despite what must have been an early awakening, and he has Lotte chattering brightly in her spot at the table as well.

"What's on the agenda for today, Lotte?" he asks her, helping himself to another couple of slices of bacon. That too is better than any other he's tried.

"Doctor Lecter has promised to tell me a Lithuanian folk tale," she says promptly.

"That's very kind of him."

"In return I must write and illustrate my own. And spelling counts," she recites, sneaking a look at her tutor.

"She's already demonstrated she has a wonderful imagination," Hannibal comments.

"Yes," Will murmurs. "I look forward to reading it, if you want to share."

"Of course, Father."

He smiles softly. "Then we will read it together." Her beaming smile is cut short by the abrupt, shrill ringing of the telephone. Will closes his eyes briefly. "Pardon me."

He goes to answer, and Jack Crawford sounds impatient. "I've got a crime scene."

Will knows better than to sigh, or insist upon a social nicety. "Where?"

"The Opera House."

"The Opera House?" He repeats in disbelief.

"Yes, Will."

"Are you sending a car or should I just take a cab?"

"The car is on the way."

"Very well, Jack, I'll be ready." He hangs up, and goes to say goodbye to Lotte.

*

When Jack said the Opera House, he'd neglected to specify - on stage. The choking wrongness of it is almost beautiful, art itself. Will feels it like waves of sound. He clutches his hat tightly as he waits to be alone with the corpse.

The corpse - once a man in a tuxedo, like the musicians wear on stage - has been left splayed over the innards of the Opera House's beautiful grand piano, strings upon strings wrapped around his neck and torso and limbs, pulling him spread eagle. Many more than the eighty-eight required to complete the piano. His torso is split from sternum to pubis, like too many other bodies Will has seen lately, but in this cavity, Will can see only metal. He's been stuffed with handfuls of coiled strings.

"Jack!" he calls out.

He's closer than Will thought. He treads heavily across the stage, a solemn percussion. "What is it? What did you see?"

"He wants to get someone's attention," Will says softly.

"Who? Someone he knows? Us? Another killer?"

A moment of reflection on that, and then Will swallows. "Perhaps, but this feels like a warning. Maybe even a dare. Look at the body, how it's hollowed, and what it's filled with. See - he hasn't got the guts. It’s as if this killer is goading someone to commit."

He looks at the cuts again; the wound pattern. Beside him, Jack must be analysing similar images.

"It’s the man who stuffs people with birds, isn't it? Our Ripper."

"No," Will corrects, "it’s not. I can’t explain, but it doesn’t feel the same. It’s like this is staged to look like the Ripper, but it’s - reductive in some way. This killer is showcasing the Ripper’s gutlessness, daring him to make a show of himself. The bravado, the pageantry of the stage, it’s all planned. He wants the Ripper to react."

"So there’ll be more bodies."

"Yes. And soon. This is the first time this man has made a public display of his killings, and he wants the Ripper to see it. It’s for his eyes only. We’re just in the cheap seats."

"That's all you've got?"

"For now. Listen, someone who knows their way around a piano did this, obviously a musician. The nature of the kill isn’t punishing, or shaming, it’s - nearly childish. Flirtatious, in a way."

"Flirtatious." Jack sounds disgusted by the taste of the word. "All right. How does that help me, Will."

"How many string specialists are there in London? Ask around to see if anyone had any thefts or big orders lately," Will shrugs.

"I'll get my people on it." Jack's demeanor is one big sigh.

Sometimes it's as if he expects Will to be psychic. Arguably it would make his job easier. Or at least less fraught with potential disaster. He shivers and turns away from the hapless musician. His skin crawls at the idea that the dead man watches him.

"Why don't we ride back to Scotland Yard together," Jack says, appearing by his side. As usual, his question is not a question at all. "We can discuss the Jameson case; I've asked a medical professional to consult. We're still trying to narrow down how long she may have been kept alive."

Will tries not to let his displeasure show. "Very well." He can handle this. Jack knows his limits. This is what he tells himself. Still, he's not thrilled with the prospect of visiting Edith again, days on. He doesn't need more dreams. Or memories.

He takes a last glance at the corpse, then looks at his shoes with resignation. "All right. I'm ready."

"Let's go." He follows Jack's tread out the door.

***

"Perfectly done, Lotte," Hannibal praises, closing their volume of Latin poetry. "Not even a single instance of help. You should be very proud of yourself."

She pinks with pleasure at the compliment.

"Thank you, Doctor." She looks at the desk, fidgeting unconsciously with her pencil.

"And what shall we have for our reward?"

"You said you would tell me a folk tale," Lotte says immediately.

"I did, didn't I." He stands. "It is not a tale for the faint hearted, and I think it requires a cup of cocoa to fortify us for the journey. How does that sound?"

"That sounds lovely, thank you," she murmurs. As ever, her shyness occasionally comes off as wariness. Hannibal is seized by his fondness for her.

"Go and make yourself comfortable in your room, Miss Lotte. I'll bring it up for you."

"All right," she smiles, and bounds up the stairs.

He goes into the kitchen and sets some milk on the stove, filling the heavy iron kettle and setting it on the burner for tea of his own. He knows which folktale he most wishes to read to her, though he hopes it will not frighten her. She's a brave girl, but as empathetic as her father. But this is a story for little girls, after all.

When the drinks are ready, Hannibal makes a detour to his room to retrieve the book, and he carries it and a tray to Lotte's room. She's sitting on her bed in a cloud of skirts, and she frowns curiously at the sight of the book.

"What's that you have, Doctor Lecter?"

"It is the fairytale I'll be reading you, here, have a look." Hannibal hands it to her, setting the tray down, and watches her examine it, first the well-maintained but aged cover, and then the inside. Her eyes move over the words.

"This is by... Hannibal Lecter! That's you!"

"It is." He smiles.

She bows her head again to inspect. "Who is Mischa?"

"Mischa was my sister, sweet girl." Hannibal perches on a chair by the bed and holds his hand out for it - a bound sketchbook filled with careful, intricate illustration and calligraphy in the illuminated style. "I made this myself, in her honour," he tells her, turning through a few of the pages.

"You drew these?" She says, almost disbelievingly. "It's so beautiful..."

"Thank you, Charlotte," he smiles.

"Why doesn't your sister have it?"

"She passed away," Hannibal murmurs, "when we were both very young."

That makes her bite her lip. "I didn't realise. Do you miss her?"

"Every day," Hannibal replies. He sees the way that affects her, and momentarily regrets being so honest. He covers her hand with his lightly. "Being with you helps very much."

"Oh," she whispers. "I'm glad. Do you want me to read to you?"

Like she does for Will. Hannibal smiles softly. "You wouldn't prefer to listen?"

"Whatever you'd like, Doctor." She pinks a bit, smiling at the book. "I would like to look at the pictures though."

"Very well, Miss Lotte. Read on." He turns to a well-thumbed page.

She takes a moment to examine the pages, and then starts to read in a soft, clear voice.

Hannibal settles himself back in his chair to listen.


	8. Chapter 8

The upper window of his house, lit despite the hour, is like a lighthouse calling him to shore when he gets home that night, well after dinner and without managing to put in an ad for a cook. Lotte and Missus Cheswick should be asleep, and Will thinks the light is from Hannibal's room, making the landing distantly glow. He lingers at the bottom of the stairs, flicking rain off his clothes, and then heads straight up to the study to pour himself a drink. He swallows it all at once, and pours another, trying not to look at the light trickling down the hall like honey.

He wants to go see Lotte, but it's late enough that she should theoretically be asleep. He's halfway through his second glass before he realises he should have eaten something, as well. Instead, he tops up the measure and drops himself down in a chair by the still warm coals of the fire.

He's sleepy enough from the whiskey to miss Hannibal's approach until he's already in the room. "Will," he tilts his head, "is everything all right?"

The man is dressed casually for once. Will studies him silently for a moment. "Long day," he says eventually, "how's my girl?"

"Quite well, Will. She ate a good dinner and read me a story before bed – the second today in fact."

Will sighs heavily at the thought of not being here. "I hate missing things, Hannibal."

"I know you do."

"She's the only good thing I have," he says blearily, taking another long sip of his drink. God, he's already getting drunk. He covers his mouth with his hand.

"She's an extraordinarily good thing," Hannibal murmurs.

Will closes his eyes at that, nodding weakly. "I never had anything before I had her."

"Then, Charlotte." Hannibal's eyes are liquid.

"Mhm." He takes another hasty sip of his drink. "Sometimes," he murmurs, "I like to walk home, and in the fog the house resembles a ship on the ocean, where nothing can get to her."

"It sounds peaceful," Hannibal whispers, "but oceans have dangers too, Will."

He just shakes his head. "Never felt that way." He drops his head into his hands.

"Will..." he feels rather than hears him crouch on his knees in front of him. "Are you well?"

"I'm a little drunk," Will admits weakly, "and a little afraid to sleep."

"Is the first meant to help with the second?" Hannibal murmurs.

"It helps with - _getting_ to sleep." He smiles grimly. "What're you doing up at this time, Doctor?"

"Waiting for you."

"Oh." Will smiles dryly. "Uh - why?"

"Because I care, Will."

He doesn't know what to say to that, except, "Would you like a drink-?"

"If you'd like company."

"I don't mind."

"Then come to the couch," Hannibal invites him.

After a considering pause, Will gets up and follows, pouring another glass for Hannibal on the way. They settle next to one another and sip in silence for a few moments.

"You seem overwrought, Will, if you don’t mind my saying so."

"No, I don’t mind. It’s true. Dark minds at work these days, Doctor."

"I heard on the wireless there had been a murder at the Opera House," Hannibal murmurs, "is that where you were today?"

Will shudders at the memory, and nods.

"A very public death."

"Depending on the person, perhaps that’s a gift."

"It’s not a gift. It was theatre. One killer peacocking for someone else – an audience of one, nearly a taunt. I’ve never felt so much... disregard, for human life." He shudders. "Let’s not discuss it. I can’t spend any more time with the dead today."

"Very well."

A little, blessed burst of silence while they both sip companionably. Will releases a long breath, eyelids feeling heavy.

"Lotte was telling me about her friend Marshall today," Hannibal says after a moment, voice mild.

Will nods. "Lady Verger is very kind to Lotte, and her governess Alana Bloom is - well, Lotte adores her."

"Yes, so I understand."

Will laughs. "What has she said?"

"We were discussing a new winter wardrobe, and Miss Lotte expressed a wish for dresses like Miss Bloom's."

"Oh." Not exactly what Will was expecting. The heat of embarrassment starts to touch his cheeks: he hadn't really considered Lotte having preferences outside whatever Will bought her - or at least she’s never expressed an interest before now.

"I'm happy to augment her wardrobe, should you wish to supply me with a budget and a preferred seamstress shop, or to allow me to use my own best judgment."

"Whatever she wants," he murmurs, more agreeable for drink but certainly genuine. He leans his head back against the back of the sofa, tilting it slightly for a view or Hannibal's profile. "Your suits are impeccable, so I think I must trust your judgment."

"I'm a firm believer that appropriate costume helps with the desired narrative."

Will tilts his head more to think that over. "I suppose so."

"I hope so, you yourself are clearly a proponent." Hannibal's long fingers tug slightly at Will's messy cravat.

"That sounds like an insult, Doctor," Will chuckles.

"Not at all, merely an observation."

"Oh yes? What do you glean from my narrative?"

Hannibal's fingers merely shift to Will's slightly crooked collar. "You wish to hide behind unexceptional clothing." He smiles. "Though I daresay little does you justice."

Will frowns, sure that there's something improper going on here, but unable to articulate it. Perhaps his discomfort stems more from his unwillingness to articulate it. So many things he doesn't want to admit to. He swallows at the thought.

"I'm sure that's not true," he whispers.

Hannibal releases his collar carefully. "Isn't it?"

"You seem awfully familiar tonight, Doctor."

Hannibal laughs softly. "I find myself unusually keen on the concept."

Will feels heat flood to his face. "I had noticed."

"I do hope you trust my assurance that it's not habitual."

"I think I do." Will hates how breathless he's gone.

Hannibal gives him a smile, so different from the usual that Will might almost describe it as... coy. "Allow me to reiterate anyway. I've never met people like you and Charlotte before. The way you look at her... like you're building bridges under her feet as she walks forward into the unknown, and honoured to do it. It's humbling to witness."

Will bites his lip. "That's what you do for your family."

"Every family needs someone with your conviction."

"I'd argue every family needs a whole lot more than I can provide, but I'm doing my best. I think you're one of my better efforts so far. Lotte adores you."

"I see her potential and wish to nurture it."

"I'm sure she sees yours, too."

Hannibal's eyes gleam at that. "Mine?"

"You look at us like you're solving puzzles," Will says softly, almost fondly, "sometimes you seem to click, when you realise something you couldn't discern before."

"Understanding is the best motivator there is," Hannibal replies. Will can feel his center of gravity shift as he leans in slightly.

"What do you understand about me, Hannibal?"

"At the risk of being familiar..." He reaches out and smoothes a few rogue curls back, and despite himself, Will closes his eyes and lets him, Hannibal's cool voice soothing him. "I believe you and I have a common otherness that finds us... somewhat cordoned off to convention." His meaning is fairly clear.

"You sound pleased."

"Because I am. I find you eminently interesting, Will."

"What's 'interesting' code for?"

"Must it be code? What if it is simply sincere?"

"It's loaded, interest is emotionally skewed."

"Would you prefer me to have no emotion?"

"I want to know what you want," Will corrects.

Hannibal doesn't answer, but he does dip his head and bring their lips together. It's soft, and slow, and when Will's brain catches up to his body, knee jerk makes him pull back, shocked.

"Hannibal..."

Hannibal sits very still, waiting. Will takes a deep breath, stunned by the hammering of his heart. He's not immune to Hannibal looks, or how he looks at _him_ , but... "That's… not _done_ , Hannibal," he stammers.

"I'm sure you know that's not true."

"I've, that is - I haven't. It's not -" his head is spinning. Dizzy, he wants to lean back in.

"Never?" He sounds just the tiniest hint skeptical.

"Well -" Will does not want to discuss this. With his governor, of all - this is so beyond the pale -

"Do you want to?" Hannibal asks softly.

He whimpers, probably enough of an answer. Immediately, Hannibal presses back in, telegraphing his actions clearly but pausing when Will can taste the faint scent of alcohol on his breath.

"Say it out loud, Will."

"Please kiss me," he whispers.

His smile tastes of triumph when he sinks his hand into Will's hair and kisses him deeply. Until they both taste of smoky peat and one another. Until Will can't stop himself from clutching at Hannibal; letting out a weak, pleading noise into his mouth. It's been so long since he's felt like this. He's not sure he can even summon another example.

He lets himself be held up, moved as Hannibal pleases. When they slide further down the sofa, Hannibal half sprawls over him in one slinky motion, their bodies crushed close. Will begins to shiver finely. His hands curl into the fabric of Hannibal's shirt.

Not that he has to worry about Hannibal moving away. He's mouthing at Will's throat now, hands smoothing over his chest. Will moans, back arching. It's dizzying. He groans Hannibal's name.

A soft noise in response; the buzz of Hannibal's lips against his skin. Will has to put his hands somewhere. He strokes one into his hair, shocked again when Hannibal twists and kisses the oyster of his palm. He lets his fingers trace the bow of his lips, gasping softly when Hannibal takes his hand in his own and kisses his fingertips.

"Touch me again, Will."

He grasps his shoulders and hauls him close again. One hand tightening in his hair, the other one seeks and finds the dip of his spine under his waistcoat, feeling the heat of his skin; the muscle of his spine. He's lost his awareness of his own body in favour of the feel of this one. Hannibal's thumb against his jaw makes him whine; his teeth on his skin. Everything Will is, suddenly laid open. Conquered. Code cracked. Anyone other than this man, perhaps, couldn't have managed. Will still isn't entirely sure when the last click sounded.

Hannibal shifts over him and he whimpers again. His hand fastens in Hannibal's hair again tightly. He's not sure if he's holding him back or keeping him close. Hannibal kisses back up to his mouth, assured and serene. Will feels anything but. He's devouring, starved gluttonous for contact. And Hannibal is feeding him just as surely as he has in Will's kitchen.

It's such an awful thing, to need. He hates feeling this way, even as much as he responds to it. At the thought, he pulls back, breathing hard. Hannibal immediately sits up as well.

"Will-?"

"I need to stop. I need to go."

Ascertaining silence, and then Hannibal nods. "I've upset you-"

"No, I - I've upset myself. I always do."

"You have nothing to feel guilty for, Will," Hannibal promises. His voice uproots something in Will's chest that makes his breath catch.

"Don't you think so?" Will whispers.

"Not one bit. There have been people like us around for centuries. There's nothing wrong with you."

"Everything is wrong with me." Will pushes to his feet.

"Will." Hannibal rises too, tone so firm it grips like a vice. When he steps close, Will's soul cries for his contact again, and it renders him choked with frustration. He frowns at his shirt front. Hannibal reaches out and strokes his hair back, then starts to correct his neck tie carefully. "There's no one here to judge you, Will," he murmurs, "least of all me."

Will has always been more than capable of judging himself. He lets Hannibal brush him down gently. But he doesn't let him any closer. Hannibal drops his hands eventually, looking pensive.

"Will you pretend in the morning that this never happened, Will?"

He swallows down his fear of the question. "I suspect you won't let me."

"It's not in my nature to coerce a reaction."

It takes Will a few seconds to let himself be honest. "I don't _want_ to pretend."

"Then we will both know the truth of it." His voice gentles. "Go to bed, Will."

He complies with a soft sigh. The house feels very empty as soon as he's shut himself in his room. And he's achingly, painfully alone. Aching physically as well.

With a huff, he undresses and gets into bed, trying to rid himself of the scent of Hannibal. It won't be easy. He turns over in his sheets, pushing his face into the pillows. His very skin is sensitised to the point of pain. His lips still sting from the rasp of Hannibal's stubble. It feels so good he could cry.

His eyes threaten to burn. He circles his hips mindlessly as a distraction, but it’s no use; nothing arousing in his own sheets, in his own company. Somehow that makes him feel even worse. He groans, and stills, and clamps a pillow firmly over his swimming head. This is useless. He is useless. He folds his arms over the pillow, and listens to the rain outside.

It seems to rage more heavily than before, a storm descending. Its chill settles over the house quickly, and eventually Will slips out of bed again, pulling on a robe and going to the window to watch the heavens pouring down; lightning on the horizon again.

"So many storms lately," Will mutters to himself. A knock at his door makes him jump, and he turns to see Lotte in her dressing gown.

"The storm woke me," she complains, rubbing her little eyes.

Will ushers her close, crouching with an arm around her as they both watch the furious sky for a while longer.

"Come on, I’ll read you back to sleep," he tells her quietly. He picks her up, and carries her back to her room.

***

Hannibal sits at the piano bench in Will's front parlor, idly playing through Charlotte's latest Bach while thinking about breakfast this morning. Will had been self-contained and ordinary, reading his section of the newspaper and asking Lotte about her day, complimenting Missus Cheswick on the condition of the house. His only indication he was in any way aware of the night before was the way he'd looked at Hannibal when he refilled his coffee, a sincere and level murmur of, "Thank you, Hannibal."

Lack of regret not being further consent, however, Hannibal allowed him his space, however reluctantly, and constrained himself to simply reading his own newspaper, being careful not to mention the Opera House murder that had Will so keyed up last night.

Now, he redirects his affection to more fatherly efforts. Lotte has been withdrawn this morning, and he promised her a shopping trip while they are out. He almost suspects she senses her father's disquiet.

"Missus Cheswick?" He regards her over his shoulder when she comes in to dust the windows. "Would you mind calling Miss Lotte down?"

"Of course," she nods.

He keeps playing while he waits, and he can sense Lotte's displeasure at the sound as her little footfalls sound.

He does not turn from the keys until he's reached the end of the movement, however.

"Miss Lotte? Are you well?"

"I feel perfectly well, Doctor Lecter."

Her expression says otherwise. Hannibal tinkles on the keys of the piano again. "Then you're irritated, perhaps."

"Father says we're _allowed_ to feel out of sorts sometimes," she says with a tone of faint accusation.

"Of course. And you don't owe me an explanation, I was merely enquiring as to whether I might be able to help."

She looks down at her clasped hands. "I don't know."

His concern, which had been fluttering, now takes flight. "Lotte," he says softly, "come here?" She tiptoes closer, until he can lift her onto his knee and regard her seriously. "Would you like to tell me what's wrong?" He keeps his voice gentle.

"I don't want to go to piano next week," she says, quietly.

He takes a breath. "We'll bring the Bach again." That doesn't seem to please her any more. "Lotte?"

"I don't want to see Mister Budge again," she whispers, "I had a dream about him."

"Darling," he tells her. "Leave the dream where it belongs, it can't follow you here."

That, it seems, is the wrong thing to say. She turns her face away.

"Do you not believe that I would protect you?" he asks.

"What if you can't?"

"I can."

"You don't know what he did," she counters.

"I don't need to know, Lotte. I can and I will."

She shudders; her little voice goes a-wobble. "I don't want to see him again," she repeats. Her stubbornness, he senses, is not the sort to be swayed with pressure.

"All right. Well, I must go and speak with him about giving at once then. Will you be all right with Missus Cheswick for a while?"

"You’re leaving? But we have classics this morning..."

"I know, but my trip won’t take long, and it would be impolite to write Mister Budge regarding this. If I go see to it, it’s dealt with, like taking medicine mm? Something unpleasant, followed by feeling better."

Her eyes on Hannibal’s hands, she nods, the soft, pale rounds of her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"There’s nothing to worry about, Lotte." He tilts his head to catch her gaze, not an easy fete. "You can take lessons at home instead, and spend this morning while I’m out preparing for our classes. Hm?"

She nods. Hannibal lifts her gently to her feet and stands himself.

"Will you be all right, to wait for me? I can go now and address Mister Budge at once." He thinks he'll be able to talk Will round to this solution, once he comes home. Lotte wipes her eyes fiercely, fidgeting with her hems. Hannibal waits patiently. "When I come home, we'll have our lesson, lunch, and then our excursion this afternoon as planned, Lotte. Yes?"

Finally, a nod. Hannibal kneels in front of her and tidies her hair and dress gently with his hands, taking a handkerchief out of his pockets and using it to carefully dry her cheeks.

"Go back to your room. I'll notify Missus Cheswick."

"Doctor Lecter," she says, soft and fearful. He pauses, and then warms when she tucks herself into his chest in an embrace.

He pets her plaits gently. "It's all right," he tells her softly. "I'm not angry."

She hiccups another little sob, clinging to him. He's more curious than concerned, but he holds her anyway. The feeling her discomfort dislodges him is uncommonly severe, reckless and simplistic. He wishes ill on whatever and whoever has brought her to this state of mind, and the realisation surprises him. He rubs her back gently until she squirms. Then, he lets it drop; releases her. She scurries upstairs as he'd asked.

Straightening himself out, Hannibal refastens his jacket, and calls Missus Cheswick for his coat and hat.

*

When Hannibal enters Budge's shop, he feels a distinctly tense air of expectation. His hand stills the door bell, and the piano in the next room is in use, though Hannibal expects at this time in the morning it's Budge and not a pupil. He steps silently into the doorway, watching deft hands move over the keys until he's noticed. The stench of rot is high in the back of his nostrils, the same tannin-rich fug that had pervaded after Budge had been to the house.

"Doctor Lecter," Budge says as he closes the keyboard cover. "I wasn’t expecting you today. Has your piano come untuned already?"

"The piano is fine, thank you Mister Budge. Regrettably, I am only here on another matter - to give notice."

"Oh?" He stands. "Is everything all right?"

"Yes, we've merely decided to pursue another avenue of learning, and I thought it prudent to let you know before Charlotte’s lesson next week so that you might otherwise fill the session. Of course, you’ll be paid the remaining term of Charlotte’s lessons."

"Something wrong with the avenue of learning I had laid out?"

"Charlotte merely finds the atmosphere too oppressive. I believe she’ll learn better outside of a conventional student-teacher setting."

"She lacks discipline, she always has."

"Discipline." Hannibal feels his temper unfurling like a snake charmed, still well-within the realms of his control, but uncomfortable nonetheless. "I’m not sure that’s something you’d know much about, Mister Budge."

"Is that so? Tell me, how would you define discipline, Doctor?"

"Resisting attention-seeking behaviour, perhaps," Hannibal murmurs. Then, as if he’s changing the subject; "I read about the trombonist at the Opera House, terrible what happened."

"Is it?" Budge asks. His gaze has gone cool and vacant.

"Terrible for someone." Hannibal doesn’t shy from it.

There's a sort of understanding branching between them. Budge, Hannibal knows, thinks he sees something in him. It's merely a shadow of the truth, he's sure. Certainly nothing with any real basis, just a mutual, unnamed recognition. Something about the gleam in Tobias’ eyes is triumphant.

Hannibal allows his derision to creep through.

"In the end, it seems, the wheat always gets separated from the chaff," he continues, pleasantly, "one way or the other."

"Sometimes it requires a helping hand," Budge adds.

"Quite. I'm sorry to have inconvenienced you. I shall see to it you're paid for Charlotte's notice."

"Yes," Budge replies, "I imagine you will. You and the detective."

"Of course." A tight smile, then.

"Interesting fellow, Mister Graham," Budge comments, voice on the knife edge of unpleasant, "I've heard rumours he's a savant of some kind."

"I've found him to be admirably capable," Hannibal says politely.

"Mm. I'm sure you have. You seem very protective of him, and his daughter. Wouldn’t have pegged you as the type."

Hannibal begins to mentally page through a recipe book while he smiles blandly. "People very seldom get the full extent of my measure, Mister Budge. Thank you for your time. I shan't take more of it than necessary."

"I do hope I'll see you again," Budge replies, "perhaps through your kitchen window, while you... cook."

He says nothing, and everything, in those few words. Though Hannibal does not know how, or when, the implication is plain: Tobias has seen something. He hesitates, looking at the various instruments on the wall; dismantled parts of violins and such laid on the work bench in the corner. It would not do for Hannibal to dispose of Mister Budge now, when Missus Cheswick knows exactly where he is, but he’s abruptly certain that it must be done.

"I dare say you will," he murmurs, and takes his leave. He finds himself anxious to return to the Grahams, and not at all willing to linger here.

As he walks home through the park, a group of blackbirds take off from the cover of the trees as if in an explosion, calls splitting the morning air. He watches them fly and wheel. In the distance, dark clouds loom. He can feel electricity in the air. He walks past the swans on the pond and closes his eyes briefly and lets it wash over him. In his mind's eye, he hears piano notes.


	9. Chapter 9

That afternoon, Lotte seems nervous despite her clear excitement at the prospect of some new clothes, and Hannibal takes a moment to extrapolate the reasons as he watches her fidget in the carriage. She’d become a different child after he’d confirmed they were to sever their contract with Mister Budge, immediately alleviated from whatever fear had gripped her, giggling and attentive while Hannibal had taught her how to make bread dough during lunch, but now she seems enclosed again. Perhaps she’s simply overtired from worrying.

"Miss Charlotte," he starts gently, "we are going to a new place, and I know that is a little daunting, but I will be with you the entire time. If you find it overwhelming, we can leave at any time. Agreed?"

She considers it for a moment, then nods. He notes with a small amount of amusement how her posture softens slightly toward him.

"Thank you," she murmurs, looking out of the little window; the grey but dry weather a refreshing change from the night before.

Hannibal likes to flatter himself that she's quite fond of him, but she's in a bit of a mood this morning. He expects she might benefit from a little quiet time, but he can't quite resist a gentle prod.

"How did you sleep last night?" The quick blue glance is all he really needs for an answer. "Would you like to reschedule? It's not an imposition."

"No," she says definitively. "We will go. I want to go."

"Very good." He sits back, taking out his pocketbook to make a few notes on what they'll need. He asks Charlotte about colors and materials, never presuming he knows her preferences from her current wardrobe.

"I like blue?" She says uncertainly. "And red - like Miss Bloom."

"Ah, yes. Of course. You would look well in both."

"And sometimes Miss Verger wears - these black dresses with white underneath and they look very fetching," Lotte continues, though more doubtfully, "but I don't know if Father likes them - he always seems very strange around Miss Verger. He says he likes her but they never stand close."

How interesting. Hannibal refocuses on his young charge after a moment of contemplation. "Black is not particularly suitable for young girls, Lotte, unless you are in mourning. Is Miss Verger in mourning?"

"Her brother passed away, but I don't think she was particularly fond of him. Father wouldn't ever let me go to their house before that, he always had Miss Verger bring Marshall to our house to play, even though it wasn't very polite."

"Your father is very wise, Lotte. What do you think is more important - wisdom or politeness?"

She eyes him thoughtfully. "I think you're playing a trick, Doctor. I think you think they both are."

"Politeness should never encroach on personal comfort or safety," Hannibal compromises, "but it is greatly important to me, yes."

"Why?" she asks.

"Discourtesy is unnecessary in nearly all circumstances. Things happen much more easily when manners are in play."

"I suppose," she replies thoughtfully, with the hint of a frown.

"Trust me." He smiles. He holds it until she returns it.

"You're different than anyone I know, Hannibal," she tells him quietly.

"And for good reason."

"What's that?"

"You didn't need someone like everyone else you know."

Her expression grows curious.

"You're right," she agrees shyly.

"It's my job to be right."

That makes her laugh.

"Just like my father."

"Yes," Hannibal agrees. They share another secretive smile. Hannibal winks to make Lotte laugh. He's incredibly fond of her. Alarmingly, in fact.

He keeps a gentle hand on her shoulder as he steers her into the fine little boutique he's chosen. She's tense but interested.

"You need three dresses, a coat, and some winter shoes," Hannibal tells her quietly, "take a look around, I'm right behind you."

Soon enough, a sales girl finds them, but Lotte shrinks closer to Hannibal. He holds her gently to his hip, unconcerned by the gentle clinging to his hand. Polite questioning sends them in the proper direction, and when they turn the corner to the section of coats, Lotte lets out a pleased squeak.

"There's a red one," she says softly, squeezing Hannibal's hand.

They go to take a look together, and when it's deemed worth trying, Hannibal drapes it gently over his arm. Lotte cannot take her eyes off it, so it's somewhat of a challenge to convince her to look at anything else. He decides to head for the dresses instead, which is a reasonable success. She seems much more open to suggestion when it comes to this rail.

When they head for the shoes, she stops still in the aisle and then waves enthusiastically.

Momentarily thrown by her unusual bout of extroversion, Hannibal doesn't quite place who she can be looking at initially. Then he sees two well-dressed women escorting a small, dark-haired boy and makes a guess.

"Charlotte," says the fairer of the two, a fragile looking individual with cool jade eyes, "has your father finally come to his senses?"

" _Margot_ ," her brunette companion whispers, which places her as Miss Alana Bloom, who is clearly far too late to control her employer.

If that is the correct descriptor, Hannibal muses, eyes flicking between them.

Sweet Lotte meanwhile is answering the question politely. "His senses are not lost, Lady Verger."

"When it comes to dressing you, occasionally they seem it," Margot whispers, and Hannibal sees Lotte smile.

"Lady Verger, Miss Bloom, this is H- Doctor Lecter." She looks back to him, eyes finding his hand. He offers it to her after sketching a polite bow, and she quickly takes it.

"Doctor Hannibal Lecter at your service, ladies. Miss Charlotte speaks often of you both. And of Marshall," he nods to the small boy.

Miss Bloom holds him gently by the shoulders, and he looks quite sullen to be here at all.

"Will told us about you, of course," Margot offers, "I have invited you all for dinner, but - well, you know Will." She sounds entirely, genuinely fond, like she knows some secret about Will. Hannibal instantly dislikes that tone.

"The comforts of home can be entirely too tempting," he replies evenly.

"He doesn't like having dinner out," Lotte translates, helpfully.

He sees both women stifle smiles. They both know him well, then. Hannibal manages not to say anything defensive about Will, merely smiling at Lotte, aware of the polite smiles directed at him in turn. They're both clearly curious about him.

"Will tells me he owes you both a debt for helping Lotte with her studies in the interim of her last governess's departure," he offers.

The two women share a long glance.

"There is no debt," Lady Verger murmurs. "We owe him far more."

A curious statement. It wouldn't be curious, at all, except for the look between them.

"Is that so?"

"As long as we live," Miss Bloom echoes, a hand touching the Verger boy's shoulder protectively.

Hannibal notices it, and feels his envy stirring again as he configures the possible outcomes behind those words. He watches Lady Verger run the rich black velvet of her skirts through her fingers, and he becomes abruptly quite sure.

"He's very special, he continually puts others' needs before his own," he murmurs. The weight of many years' experience allows him to keep his expression smooth as he adds, "At great personal cost."

They exchange another glance.

"Often," Margot confirms.

It's Alana Bloom who changes the subject, clearly aware of the presence of the children.

"We're here getting Marshall a new winter coat, that looks like what you're getting too, Lotte. Great minds think alike - and that red will look so pretty on you. Have you tried it on?"

She shakes her head, and looks beseechingly at Hannibal.

"Go ahead, Lotte." He smiles at her.

With his help, she shakes it out and slips it on. In the fierce shade she looks like a little doll, her curls gleaming and her pale eyes made all the more bright.

Miss Bloom, who Hannibal knows to be genuinely attached to Lotte on instinct, applauds.

"It looks wonderful! Very grown up, and with your pretty hair..."

Lotte turns her face up to Hannibal, clearly awaiting his assessment.

"Go and look in the mirror," he encourages her gently, steering her to the nearest. He watches her take in her reflection with a warm rush of tenderness toward her. She looks quite breathless.

"It's perfect," he tells her. "What do you think?"

"Do you like it?"

"I do. Very much so."

"Do you think Father will-?"

"I'm sure of it. Ladies?"

"Very striking, Lotte," Margot assures.

"Quite," Alana agrees. "I'm glad you found something."

Glowing with quiet pleasure, Lotte lets Hannibal relieve her of the coat.

"Father says I can have three new dresses, too," she tells Alana.

"Goodness. Then you had better start looking," she laughs merrily.

Between them, they manage to coax her along, though getting her to relinquish the red coat is a lost cause for the time being. Hannibal lets her keep it on as they browse, Lotte offering a fluting commentary on his selections for Miss Bloom and Lady Verger until Marshall begins to fret with boredom.

The women take their leave shortly thereafter, Miss Bloom lifting Marshall Verger to her hip.

Hannibal watches them go with curiosity peaked, mind turning over the strange urgency in those two pairs of eyes at the mention of Will. He moves onto helping Lotte pick out shoes, finally, but his mind stays with them. And Will, as well.

*

At home, Hannibal starts on dinner while Lotte has quiet reading until he hears the door go; Will's voice. The sound of Lotte's voice at the top of the stairs and Will's gentle greetings are soothing to him as he works on his accoutrements. He's come home early. Hannibal can hear Lotte's delight. Her words are indistinguishable, but he hears Will say, "I can't wait to see them, sweetheart," and can't help the genuine smile that moves over his lips like shadow chased by sun.

If only her father would prove so easy to convince into a new wardrobe. Or simply out of the current one.

He's not ashamed of the direction of his thoughts in the slightest. He's not inclined to discourage genuine feelings of attraction, no matter how impractical. Not when it's so seldom that he feels this way about anyone.

"Lotte, go and get washed up for dinner, please," Will's voice again, even and affectionate.

It's getting closer; Will enters the kitchen a moment later. He looks almost cautious about coming in.

Hannibal nods politely. "Will. Welcome home."

"Hello Doctor. I put an ad in the paper today finally, hopefully you won't have to roleplay Cook much longer."

"It is honestly my pleasure..." Hannibal studies him thoughtfully. "But perhaps it might be made known to the next cook that I will require use of the kitchen?"

"Already in the ad," Will murmurs, coming to help himself to a glass of water. Hannibal touches his shoulder gently. Will looks at him, visibly wary. "Charlotte seems very pleased about her new clothes."

"She was marvelously well-behaved at the shop. I'm quite proud."

"She's always well-behaved," Will says, a touch defensive.

"It can be a stressful situation," Hannibal demurs. "It was pleasant to make the acquaintance of the Verger family, as well. We ran into them shopping for Marshall."

Will doesn't seem to have anything to say to that; he just shrugs. "Thank you for taking her."

"Of course. I am happy to do anything that needs to be done, Will."

"I know that." He seems agitated. Hannibal is, to his own displeasure, unsure which approach would serve best. Will, he has found, is nearly impossible to predict.

"How was your day?" he asks, politely.

"Tolerable, thank you. A lot of interviewing musicians, which they do not like."

Hannibal laughs. "I’m not surprised to hear it. Are you hungry?"

"I am. It smells... enticing."

"It should be. Want to try some?" He selects a spoonful from the pan; offers it delicately with his hand underneath.

Will glances up, shying but too polite to reject Hannibal – at least in this instance. The thought still sears Hannibal with uncharacteristic irritation.

"All right," he murmurs. He hesitates, and then quickly leans and accepts the mouthful, wiping his mouth as he turns away with a chuckle. Hannibal allows his pleasure to reach his eyes. "Very nice," Will says, the words ambiguous.

"I'm delighted." Will's ears, he notices, have gone very pink. He doubts it's the heat of the kitchen. "You don't usually frequent my kitchen, Will."

"No, I suppose not." He wets his lips, visibly self-conscious.

"Is there a reason for it today?" Hannibal asks.

"I came to thank you for taking Charlotte."

"We needed a good outing after the morning," Hannibal admits.

His blue eyes alight with concern. "What happened-?"

"I am afraid I felt it necessary to give notice to Mister Budge, Charlotte came over quite upset at the thought of visiting him again next week. I don’t know if he said something at her lesson yesterday, but she was distraught."

Will raises his eyebrows. "Oh - Very well. I confess to a feeling of relief," he adds carefully.

"As must I. She had me worried this morning. She said she'd had bad dreams." He must sow these seeds carefully. Budge’s warning hasn’t left Hannibal shaken, merely inconvenienced, and he girds himself against further impulsiveness: there is a cleaner way to have Budge neutralised, and it stands before him, protective instincts primed.

Will frowns, looking down. "I know I tend to indulge her..."

Hannibal tilts his head. "In what way?"

"Allowing her to avoid what she fears."

"Protecting our children from their fears is natural, and admirable."

Will is still regarding the floor. "I don't want her to be paranoid," he admits, softly, "like my work makes me."

"I think the reality," Hannibal replies, "is that she's right to fear him."

Will's eyes don't snap to him, they slide, the awareness there bright and sharp. "Has he hurt her?"

"No, of course not," Hannibal assures him. He's thrilled by the coldness that had come over Will then; the certainty of what would have followed if Hannibal had said yes. "But I fear he is capable."

"How in the world would you know that, Hannibal?"

"It may be nothing," he offers, tilting his head in deference. "A certain flavour of hostility – and something he said. I mentioned the murder at the Opera and he seemed – almost pleased. Remarked on the use of gut strings, I can’t quite explain myself. I must sound quite irrational."

"No, no." Will shakes his head. "Sometimes that’s all it takes. But – he has no history of criminal behaviour, and he’s well-recommended..."

"Perhaps I'm getting a little paranoid too, then, Will. He's very interested in _you_."

"In me-?" Will's brows crease. "What did he say?"

"Called you a savant, I believe it was."

"And you think that makes him dangerous? I've been called worse. Perk of the job."

"It wasn't just the words," Hannibal says, aware he can't rightly explain. "It simply occurred to me, just from our conversation, that the murderer you are looking for from the opera house would have to have knowledge of stringed instruments."

He sees Will's eyes unfocus for a moment. "I know that, but he has no motive, and no connection with the opera house-"

"He has enough."

Will swallows solidly. "That can't be your only basis, there are a dozen piano shop owners within a square five mile radius of the Opera house."

"But none of them know you."

"Why am I so important?"

"Because you catch men who kill," Hannibal whispers. Some more completely than others. "You said it yourself, Will, the killer at the Opera House was performing for someone."

A shiver goes through Will. "If you think it should be investigated, of course I will go tomorrow to invite Mister Budge down for some questions."

"If you agree."

"It seems willfully ignorant not to pursue it." He pauses. "Thank you, Hannibal."

"For what-?"

"For so many things, I'm starting to lose track."

"As ever, Will, I assure you it's my pleasure." He considers stepping closer. In the dower evening light, though, Will looks skittish and disturbed.

"Lotte wishes to show me her clothes," he excuses himself, "dinner at eight-?"

"Yes, Will," Hannibal murmurs. He sees him hesitate once more, before finally steering himself away. Ruminating on his options, Hannibal goes back to dinner.

*

Hannibal notices Will prodding at his breakfast more than eating it the next morning, and tilts his head in concern. He hadn't heard either Graham during the night last night. He's concerned neither of them slept, though he hadn't found Will in the study when doing his rounds. Part of him knows, and tells him in a soft and spiteful voice, that Will is steeling himself for what happens if Hannibal’s ‘hunch’ about Budge is right, and all the fall out that could entail. He doesn't ask, but he suspects Will spent the night soaking up as much of his daughter’s company as possible, in case the worst should happen.

Now, he just pours Will more coffee, barely heartened by his small, grateful smile.

"Art today, Miss Lotte?" he asks brightly.

"And poetry?"

"Perhaps a Greek translation." That thought seems to please her. "I thought we could make lunch together, also," Hannibal adds. He directs the tail end of his smile at Will instead.

"Can we make crepes again?" Lotte pipes.

"Crepes sound good," Will puts in, casually. "I guess I'll try be home for lunch."

"We would welcome you. Or save you a plate."

"All right. Thank you." Another small smile. Then Will stands. "Forgive me, I had better be going. I have some procedural reports to go over before my interview this morning." He kisses Lotte good bye, and then hovers by the door.

"Doctor Lecter," he says, and Hannibal raises his eyes. "Look after her for me, won’t you?"

A chill touches the back of Hannibal’s neck at the words; the first spider-web threads of apprehension. 

"Always," he assures.

Will was looking for reassurance, and it does the trick. He waves at Lotte once more, and lets himself quietly out.

Disquieted, Hannibal turns his attention to Lotte, who somewhat shyly regards her plate.

"He's tired today," she says, almost excusing him.

"Yes, it's all right."

"We read together when we can't sleep," Lotte says, quietly. "Usually I fall asleep first."

Yes, that explains where they both were. The thought of Will sat sleepless by his daughter's bed, purely for comfort, moves him quietly. Moves him nearly to the point of pain. He closes his eyes, briefly.

"Would you mind terribly if we listened to some Beethoven while we paint, Miss Lotte?"

"That would be nice, Doctor."

He sips his coffee, and nods. "I'm glad you think so." He has just the record in mind.

*

They pass the morning in pleasant quiet. Charlotte is tired, but merely complacent instead of overwrought. Come lunchtime, Hannibal tasks her with sifting flour for their crepes, watching her as he prepares fillings. She works neatly and carefully. He is proud of her concentration in the kitchen.

His own leaves something to be desired, interest wandering to Will periodically; his inference he might attempt to be home for lunch. He's concerned, and somewhat regretting his decision to steer Will towards Budge. His recklessness with Budge had not been tempered by his hurt at Will's near-rejection. Now, the possible outcome of his actions startles him.

His own agitation is uncomfortable to endure. It's making him skittish, his gaze flicking continually to Lotte where she's stood on a step next to the sink, his ears straining for the distant sound of the phone ringing. He smells the powdery, dry cotton of the flour; the mellow, rounded richness of butter melting on the stove. He looks from the flashing movements of his own knife to Lotte’s careful hands again, and then to the window. There, his eyes snag on a dark shape by the window; his head whips to follow it around to the glass panels in the back door.

"Lotte," he says quickly, "please go upstairs immediately." She frowns, confused, and he raises his voice just a touch. " _Now_ , Lotte; do not ask questions."

Stricken, she does as she's told. Hannibal wipes his paring knife, and waits. He's not expecting a knock.

Tobias Budge enters silently through the door, and freezes in the doorway to the kitchen. Blood runs down his collar from his ear, and his eyes are wide. He smells of the feral, ammonia lit stench of fear and exertion and blood - deoxygenated blood, and the deep iron of organ meat. His hands and the whites of his shirt sleeves are flecked with small, dark droplets.

"Mister Budge," Hannibal says in a low voice.

"Doctor Lecter."

"You made a mistake, coming here."

"Like your Detective Graham," Budge breathes, "coming to me with only a police escort."

"He's done this to you, then," Hannibal murmurs, eyes going dark and cold.

"And yet here I am. I’m going to kill you, and then everyone else in this house."

"And here I thought you had dropped by for crepes."

Without further preamble, Hannibal sweeps a mixing bowl off the counter and throws it at his head. Budge ducks, and it shatters against the floor, but his distraction and the pluming flour allows Hannibal to take him in the gut with a dropped shoulder.

They grapple then, crashing and toppling things, teeth bared. Hannibal loses the knife, Budge a fiercer opponent than expected, but it hardly matters. Hannibal is quicker, sleeker, and he can improvise - and does.

With a grunt of effort, he shoves Budge, sending him careening into the stove, the smell of singed flesh rising up with the sound of his scream. His rage is just as searing, his fists flying, one hand gripping Hannibal’s throat for a split second before he manages to throw him off, back into the cupboard.

They both breathe for a moment.

"Not bad, for a nanny," Budge observes. He’s rummaging in his pocket, and he shakes loose a glinting wire.

"Not just a nanny," Hannibal breathes.

They clash again, weaving and evading. Hannibal catches a blow to the head and it throws him into the island; its suspended rack of utensils above. Winded by the counter in his lungs, blood gushing over his lips, Hannibal grabs the steak mallet from above just as Budge snatches the wire around his throat. He doesn’t get chance to tighten it before Hannibal is swinging the mallet sharply over his shoulder. There's a satisfying noise of fleshy contact and he wheels as the pressure on his throat eases. Another strike, and another, blood flecking across his cheek as he draws the hammer back again and finally feels Budge fall backward behind him.

"Hurry," Lotte is sobbing, her voice traveling down the stairs from the phone and into the wreck of a kitchen.

Hannibal takes stock, breathing hard, and reaches down to check Budge's pulse. Satisfied, he throws the hammer aside and limps to the sink, carefully washing his hands and face before he goes upstairs.

"Miss Charlotte?"

Lotte, her small, pale face blotched with tears, cowers behind the bookshelf by the phone.

"Beloved," he whispers, "it's all right now. You can come to me."

She hesitates just barely, and then runs to him, shaking hard. He takes her into his arms, holding her to his chest as he lowers himself shakily down to sit on the top stair.

"You called Scotland Yard?" he murmurs.

"Father gave me the number for emergencies, they said he just came back, he's on his way, he got hurt-"

Hannibal shushes her gently, rocking, a fierce relief flourishing in his chest like an unfurling flower: Will _lives_. "You did well. Everything is all right."

She's trying to talk, but he can't make out words through her sobs, so he just compresses her gently against his chest until she starts to still. Together, they stay curled on the stairs until they hear the front door: Will, frantically skidding to the kitchen, a commotion of movement behind him and the booming voice of a stranger, instructing others.

His pale face comes to the bottom of the stairs, and then he swears under his breath and throws himself up them. In his frantic rush, he merely throws his arms around them both.

"I was so worried, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry-"

"I thought he’d hurt you, Will, I thought-"

"He tried to." Will gestures to a slowly purpling bruise on his throat. "I managed to get to the other officer’s gun and - he got away."

He’s not letting go of them. Despite the ugly anger rising in him at the garrote mark, Hannibal allows himself to close his eyes and enjoy the sensation for a moment. Then he gently shifts Lotte's small frame into Will's arms. He hears feet in the hall.

"I must go and talk to your superiors, Will," he says gravely.

"Yes - yes. Ask for Jack Crawford downstairs. I can come-"

"Stay with Lotte."

Will clutches her, nodding fast, catching Hannibal's hand before he starts down the stairs. He looks so beautiful, his eyes bright with unshed tears and his curls wild around flushed cheeks. "Are you all right-?"

"I'm all right, Will." He'll need to catalogue his injuries - and Will's - but he judges them minor. With a final, weak smile, he heads down the stairs.


	10. Chapter 10

Will eases the door of Lotte's room closed when she's finally asleep, only slightly calmed by the sight of his girl, tearstained but unharmed. He'd insisted she take a small measure of a sleeping draught he keeps for emergencies, though he hates to use it. He hovers a moment longer before heading down the corridor to Hannibal's quarters, helping himself to the quart of brandy from his study before he goes.

He knows the police, and Jack, are long gone. When he'd stopped Hannibal in the hall earlier on one of their many intersecting paths, he'd said simply, "Self-defense, they said. I'm cleaning up."

Now, the kitchen is spotless, the body long gone, Missus Cheswick gone to her mother's for the night for the shock of it. It's just Will, Lotte, and Hannibal.

Will makes a mental note to himself as he walks to get his service revolver out of the safe in the study and keep it somewhere downstairs, out of Lotte’s reach but loaded. It had never truly occurred to him before today just how dangerous his work could be for her - what might have happened if not for Hannibal.

Hannibal, who had killed a man with a steak mallet after he had attacked Will and had then come to damage him further. Despite Will’s wishes, Hannibal had refused to have the medics at the scene tend him, and Will is merely, belatedly going to check on him. Or so he tells himself. He knocks on the door and waits for Hannibal's soft invitation.

Hannibal is seated by his fire when Will enters, and he smiles softly at the decanter and glasses Will carries. "Medicinal aid?" he quips mildly.

"Doctor's orders."

"We'll add mind-reading to your list of talents," Hannibal muses, accepting a glass.

"That's fair." Will gestures. "May I sit?"

"Please," Hannibal replies.

As Will does, he looks around. The room is transformed from what he knew it as, lush with modern and extravagant decor - though all of it tasteful. It reminds him of Hannibal himself, like a fancy shell. He'd comment, but there are rather more pressing matters at the forefront of his mind.

"You saved her," he murmurs.

"I snapped at her, she's probably horribly upset with me."

"She knows why you did," Will murmurs. His throat goes tight. "I owe you an unpayable debt, Hannibal-"

"No," Hannibal cuts him off. "I brought this on you."

"You did no such thing."

"I fear I incited him to this."

"In what way-? He was escalating."

"I was… prideful, when I removed Charlotte from his tutelage."

"Prideful how-?"

"Of my own skill, compared to his."

"That doesn't matter," Will presses, propelled out of his chair and to Hannibal in the current of his insistence. "You knew he wasn't good for her, you knew - you saw in him what I ignored."

Hannibal seems surprised by their sudden proximity.

"You released him to protect her, and you killed him to protect her," Will whispers. Hannibal’s eyes are shining, catching the firelight in their pale depths.

With the air between them a-tremble, Will plucks the glass out of Hannibal's hand, and then he grasps the arms of the chair and kisses him hard.

Hannibal's hands fly to his waist, his grip hot and firm and definitely not pushing Will away. He breathes Will's name against his lips. Will follows it down right into his lap. It's startlingly, searingly intimate, feeling Hannibal’s palms slip up his back and flanks, keeping him close. Will is more concerned with the kiss, all his feelings flowing out of him. The second he'd seen Hannibal on the stairs, Charlotte clutched to his chest and a gash on the bridge of his nose, he'd felt throttled by his gratitude; his need. It had been hard to keep it at bay.

He can't anymore. He pours it into Hannibal instead. And Hannibal drinks it down like it was wine.

Will slides closer, scrabbling at Hannibal's cravat. He doesn't stop him; doesn't ask him if he's sure. He lets Will strip it off and bend to kiss the exposed hollow of his throat with a soft moan. Will's need is alive within him now. It carries his confidence as if on a stream, drives him to find more and more skin. Hannibal's hands soothe and guide, letting him trail his mouth, hands moving clumsily to get at his chest. Will strips at his own clothes even more roughly.

Hannibal seems more than happy to assist, eyes catching the firelight once more, cherry red for a moment. Their hands are both greedy. Their mouths smear back together as Hannibal pushes Will's shirt down his shoulders, letting the fabric bunch at his knuckles when he pulls back to look at his skin.

"Radiant," he whispers.

Will shrugs out of it and lets it drop. Trepidation is waiting at the back of his mind to freeze him, and he can't let it. He tumbles Hannibal's hair out of its orderly coif with eager hands. It gets him a soft hum of laughter.

"Have you been waiting to do that, Detective?"

"The thought… had crossed my mind."

Hannibal chuckles. His hands stray down, down, stroking down Will’s belly and over the line of him through his trousers, eliciting a soft gasp.

"I don't understand what you're doing here," Will admits, "but I'm glad you are."

"I'm here for you and your daughter," Hannibal murmurs. "True, I had not anticipated the extent to which my feelings would develop, but I can assure you, they are quite well-established now."

Will leans down to press their mouths together again. "Good to know. Take me to bed." He's shocked when Hannibal scoops him up and stands with him. "Hannibal, you shouldn't-"

It's like addressing the air. He's on the soft mattress in moments, hands swiftly stripping away his trousers as he gasps and tries to help. He's hot all over, overcome, and he holds Hannibal's shoulders for a moment and tries to catch his breath.

"I'm terrified," he admits softly.

"Not of me?" Hannibal breathes.

"Not of you."

"Then let go, I'm here to catch you."

"Being caught isn't the problem, I'm tethered plenty."

"Tell me what it is, then." Hannibal's lips skim his ear.

Will's so aware of his physical proximity; the heat of him and the press of muscle and bone. "Of letting myself want things," Will whispers. "But I can't ignore how much I want you."

Smoothly, swiftly, Hannibal kisses him again. This time Will holds on and rolls them, climbing onto him again and sinking his hands into his hair. He feels loose and slinky and free with Hannibal's adoration scenting the air. His hands, warm and capable hands - _violent hands_ \- shaping Will's skin. He draws the tip of his nose up the column Will's throat.

"I'm happy you're here."

"I can't imagine being anywhere else. This feels… inevitable." He touches Hannibal's hair, expression clouding with uncertainty. "You feel inevitable."

"Is that so terrible?"

"It's not terrible at all. It's never felt like this."

"No? What would you like to do about it?"

"Take more," Will murmurs.

"Go ahead, Will."

Will nods and starts undressing him. It feels dangerous, right too. Like an avalanche rushing down a mountain. He leans down to kiss the skin he exposes. Feeling greedy, frantic, overwhelmed by the sight.

Hannibal cups his face in cool hands and soothes him with his touch. Will's skin feels hot when they're finally both bare and pressed together. He's just grateful. Grateful and enraptured. "I can't believe you're here."

"In your home?"

"In my home. In my life."

"In your bed," Hannibal murmurs.

"In my bed," Will whispers back.

Hannibal kisses him again deeply. Their hands tangle again as they both try to touch. "When was the last time you did this, Will?"

"I don't - remember -"

"A long time then."

"University?" Will breathes.

"Ah." Hannibal kisses under his jaw. "I wager I can make you feel better than some underclassman."

"Do you now?"

"Shall we see?"

Will bites his lip, a little shake to his voice when he speaks. "Mm. Let's." He lets himself be rolled over again.

Hannibal looks down at him with plain adoration for a moment, then drops down to kiss his stomach. Will feels as if something's alive inside him, something with teeth. An open maw that hungers for specific sacrifice. He groans when Hannibal’s teeth scrape across his skin.

The shadows in the room are thrown by a sudden gust of wind down the chimney, stuttering the flames. He feels like it's all around them. Like Hannibal's image flickers with the flames. He feels as hot as flames, too.

He's kissing Will's hips now, hands appetitive on his thighs and stomach. Will writhes underneath him. His breaths come faster. That wicked red mouth is all over him, soft and sweet as sin, bringing pleasure that shakes him.

"Hannibal," he whispers, voice soft and foreign with pleading even to his own ears.

Hannibal hums. Slowly, his teeth find the tender inside of Will's thigh, and Will makes a high noise, feeling his blood thrum.

The bite is hard, and unexpectedly deep, but Will doesn't pull away or cry out, muffling it in his hand. Hannibal soothes it with his tongue, after, like he had not been the one to deliver the pain at all. His hair feels like silk under Will's fingers. Will can't keep still, or quiet. He's unfamiliar with the feeling inside of him, a fearful sort of urgency. Hannibal's mouth is on him again and again. Kisses full of teeth and promise. Will calls his name, helplessly.

"Beautiful," Hannibal assures him softly from between his knees. He's licking and stroking every soft place, fingers teasing.

A stuttering breath escapes Will as his lips skim the root of Will's rising cock. "Hannibal -"

"Yes, Will?"

"Are you sure you want to -"

"Are you asking me, or yourself?"

"I want to," Will whispers.

"And do you doubt me?"

"No, how could I, after-"

"Then let me show you?"

Will makes another soft noise. "Please," he nods. Then he feels Hannibal's lips again. It's hot and intimate. A wicked curl of pleasure skewers him in place. Hannibal's lips slide down over his cock slow and wet and hot, and Will merely trembles. "Oh, _Hannibal_."

He hears rain rattling the windows. His body crawls with heat. Not more so than Hannibal's mouth. He feels flooded with neat desire, the scent of it thick and cloying. It washes away the shame and the worry both, transforms it into a more animal need altogether. The need to thrust and push his way deep inside.

He pleads Hannibal's name again softly, the movement of his hands restless. He can't keep his hips from lifting, flexing; a hundred lonely nights when he hid his needs in his mattress, and now he's here. He nearly cries out for the loss when Hannibal pulls back, but then he's lifting himself over Will, settling on his hips before he reaches for the bedside; a small tin there. He leans down for a kiss, letting Will run greedy hands over his shoulders. Soft, metallic clicking, and then his slic hand reaching down and wrapping warm around Will's length, stroking a muffled cry out of him.

"Let me," Hannibal murmurs soothingly. His dry hand goes to one of Will's wrists, pinning it to the bed with unexpected force as, with a last curl of his tongue against Will's upper lip, he draws back and begins to rock and rub back against him.

It's a good thing he's holding Will down; he jerks as soon as he feels himself pressing in.

"Shh, shh, let me look after you," Hannibal tells him quietly. He wipes his other hand and takes Will's other wrist, letting his weight down on him, sheathing Will slowly within the heat of his body.

"Please," Will moans, voice cracking. The words leave him then as Hannibal starts to move, riding himself on his length in long, fluid motions. His hands close into claws against the sheets. His body snaps taut with need as he's taken and takes in turn, saturated with sensation anew.

It's a glut of passion, wrapping around him like silken rope. Something reaches into him and finds the core of all his desire, unseen hands that knead and stroke; feed the flame. He comes unknotted all at once, filling the space around him with heat and engulfing hunger. A cry breaks from him as he looks up at Hannibal, sleek and serpentine over him, fucking Will and fucking himself, both of them stuck in an endless feedback loop. He imagines he can see stars, blotted out by Hannibal's shoulders. A patch endless, inky black, moving in Hannibal's image, hiding in the night sky, surrounding him with rain clouds and sudden bursts of electricity, a little thunderstorm raging over the black ocean of this bed.

Will feels the thunder roll within as he starts to move in earnest. Hannibal gives. Hannibal takes. Will endures the pull, letting it drive him. The pleasure makes him sightless, thoughtless, just wanting and nothing more. Like the fire, all he needs is fuel, and Hannibal is all the fuel he needs. He's a dousing of kerosene, pouring himself all over Will, mindless of what else catches. What else can Will do but burn?

He swallows another moan as Hannibal presses down to kiss him. He keeps moving, rolling down into their joining with greedy strokes. When Will tugs, Hannibal lets him free his hand to wrap around his cock; thumb at the soft skin to rub under the head as he fists him in slick rolls. It feels like the best kind of power, to hear him gasp his name. He drinks down Hannibal's soft moans of encouragement between more kisses. Takes it as permission to rock his hips up in his own driving rhythm. The hiss Hannibal gives is nearly animal; his hand slips to Will's throat, holding, gripping.

" _Yes_ ," he growls, locking up at the onslaught, "yes, perfect boy."

Will moans, feeling Hannibal's grip everywhere. They clutch one another, the air around them frenzied, Hannibal's teeth bared and eyes gleaming as he takes his orgasm from Will with a low, rapturous moan that winds him crushingly tight. He spills over Will's fingers, hot like blood.

"My god," Will gasps. He can't hold back. Hannibal cradles him as he shakes beneath him, one hand still clasped over his neck. He feels like he shakes entirely apart. As if those gentle, warm hands on him are the only things keeping him together.

Maybe they are. Will wouldn't be surprised. Hannibal has become… quite necessary to him. Alarmingly so, he thinks, holding onto his waist.

Retracting his hands, Hannibal kisses his forehead and cheeks gently, easing them apart. Will still can't restrain his whimper. He clings tight even when they separate, listening to the rain on the windows and the thump of Hannibal's heart. A warm hand soothes down his side, through his hair.

"Will?"

"Hannibal."

"What are you thinking?"

"About how important you have become," Will murmurs. He's not expecting the softness Hannibal's eyes take on.

"I assure you, the sentiment is quite mutual. I never could have anticipated how dearly I would come to care for you both."

Both of them. Will heart thumps. "Lotte adores you," he assures him faintly.

Hannibal smiles. "Thank you, Will." He tips his chin up with a finger for a slow kiss. "Stay with me tonight," he whispers.

"If Lotte -"

"If she wakes tonight after the sleeping draught, I will be surprised indeed. But I would hear her, and I wager you would also."

Will takes a few slow breaths to steady himself. "You're right. I want..." to stay. He’s not sure why it’s so hard to admit.

"Then stay," Hannibal whispers.

He stays. He can't imagine being alone right now. The only other place he'd possibly go is to Lotte.

Lying in Hannibal's warm embrace, finding himself weary despite his nerves, a question swims into the forefront of his mind. "Hannibal," he says tiredly, "where did you come from?"

"Most recently? Or originally?"

"Both."

Hannibal hums. "I'm much more interested in where you're from, Will."

"Me? Nowhere exciting. Portsmouth."

"Shipping town. Your father worked on the docks?"

Will nods. "All my life."

"And your mother?"

Will just shakes his head. "Left when I was a baby. No idea."

"Did you have a governess, growing up?"

Will laughs. "I only went to school on a charity scholarship." He rubs his eyes. "Thought I'd always be poor. Thought any kids I had would be poor, too."

"She's not. You have a very comfortable home."

"Thanks to Jack Crawford getting wind of my brain," Will agrees tiredly.

Hannibal touches his temple. "It is a very nice brain," he says, in a tone that inadvertently makes Will chuckle.

"Thanks." He sighs, closing his eyes. Just breathes. Hannibal presses a kiss into his hair and strokes absently down his chest.

"Sleep, precious boy," he says softly, "I won't let anyone hurt you."

_I wasn't worried_ , he thinks, but maybe it's a lie.

*

Will is awoken the next morning by the smell of coffee; Hannibal's weight on the mattress when he leans to stroke his hair. "Breakfast is ready, darling boy," he murmurs.

"Where's - mm, where's Lotte?"

"Bathing with Missus Cheswick."

Will bolts up at that. "She's home-?"

"Life goes on, Will."

"Not when I'm in my governor's bed it doesn't, Hannibal!" He starts to pull on his clothes hastily, face hot.

Hannibal is as unflappable as ever. He holds Will's jacket up to him, and when he's rammed it on, the cup of coffee. Will thanks him with flaming cheeks. He's flapping, he thinks, until Hannibal stops him with a patient hand on his cheek, and kisses him.

"I've drawn you a bath in your room."

"Oh," Will breathes. "I -"

"You're welcome. Go on now."

Will goes before he stumbles over any more words. Mercy has it, he doesn't run into Lotte or Missus Cheswick on the landing. He suspects it's timing on Hannibal's part. Either way, he's grateful. The bath is also steaming hot and supplied with a small block of scented soap. Will gratefully sinks into it, and tries not to think too closely about the night before.

He feels somewhat like he's not alone in here. Guilt creeps on him, but can't quite stick. He was so desperate for Hannibal last night, and he still is, underneath the fog. It was the first time in a long time he'd felt... good. It has taken up residence in his chest now, like a bone-deep itch.

He sighs at the thought, and sinks down lower in the water, letting the murk swallow him up. He ducks his head entirely under for a moment, savouring the hollow quiet. It's only the creeping sensation of fingers against his waist that startles him up again.

"Hannibal?" he gasps.

"Will? Are you all right?" The voice, he realises, is coming from the other side of his bedroom door. God. He shakes his head, belatedly realising he's sending water flying.

"Fine," he rasps. "Fine, just - I can’t find my... glasses."

"They're on your mantlepiece," Hannibal says calmly through the wood panel.

"Thank you - thanks." He folds his arms against the lip of the tub like it might keep him safe from whatever is in there with him. Fear compels him to vacate the water, but there's an awful curiosity too.

He pants into a towel for a moment before he can bring himself to dry off. Then he peers into the murky water, droplets from his hair disrupting the mirror shine surface. The copper bottom of the tub taunts him. With a long sigh, he straightens, and starts to dress.

His formal suit feels like armour and a straitjacket both. Maybe, he thinks, Jack would excuse him working from home today. He leaves his coat off and goes to the phone instead.

Thankfully, Jack is surprisingly malleable to the idea. His men have Budge's entire shop to sift through, after all, and he is happy to allow himself to hope he can connect more of his murder cases to that abattoir.

"All right, Will. Rest up," Jack agrees.

Will hangs up and closes his eyes for a moment, then goes downstairs. Lotte is at the breakfast table, book under the table. Her hair is braided but still curling damply at the ends. He touches the end of a pigtail as he passes. She looks up and smiles, tired and small but sincere.

"Your new dress looks very pretty, Lotte."

"Thank you, Father. I do like it very much."

"I do too. We'll have to set you up another actual visit to Miss Bloom."

"I'd be happy to take her there any time she likes," Hannibal murmurs from the kitchen doorway.

Lotte, Will sees, is beaming softly. He's not sure if it's at the prospect of the visit or at Hannibal. "Would you like that, sweetheart?" he asks her softly.

She nods. "Soon?"

"Certainly." He has an absurd swell of jealousy at the thought of Alana and Margot spending time with Hannibal. He's not sure why. He looks down at his newspaper to school his features. "I'm working from home today. What's your agenda?"

"Greek, and then composition, I believe."

"Sounds challenging," Will muses.

"Miss Charlotte likes a challenge."

Will watches her blush and nod at her place setting. "So does her father."

Hannibal brings breakfast to the table, and Will tries hard not to look at him too much. But his gaze is drawn, nearly magnetised. Hannibal meets his eyes with a warm smile. He seems to have no problem with eye contact at all. Will, as ever, is the first to break away. He applies himself to his thankfully delicious meal.

Emitting content like a lighthouse, Hannibal sits opposite Lotte, and her sweet chatter fills the cool blue dining room with warmth. Will watches her intently for signs of upset, and finds… only what he expects. Hesitance; a slight withdrawn quality. He still wants to hold her and never let go. He struggled to let go of her last night, truly. But he indulged himself instead.

Another crawling wave of shame.

"Would you like to join us for anything?" Hannibal offers, like he can sense it.

"I suspect I'd be more a hindrance than help in matters of Greek, and composition."

"Perhaps later on then."

"Yes, quite." He suspects he won't be able to stay away. Lotte has always been draw enough on her own, but watching Hannibal patiently, proudly guide her is a fresh lure. And Hannibal is good at luring him.

He hides a smile against his palm as Hannibal begins to gently tease Lotte about her eyes crossing from reading under the table. She abandons her book to respond, giggling, to Will’s intense relief.

It feels necessary to be close, after all that transpired yesterday. Will can't bring himself to go and get on with work. Neither of them seems likely to make him.

Breakfast runs over, and then Will brings some of his work into the schoolroom while Lotte gets on with Greek. He doesn't get terribly much done, at first, in favour of listening in. 

Hannibal's smile is, as ever, fondly knowing.


	11. Chapter 11

Will allows himself to divide his attention all day, but in the evening - walking past the kitchen door and seeing Hannibal inside - he's drawn to stop. Lotte is taking a nap before dinner. He can hear Missus Cheswick upstairs, cleaning the schoolroom. He takes a breath and steps inside.

"How are you?" he asks Hannibal softly.

He straightens from a bowl of dough. "I'm well, thank you, Will. And yourself?"

"Whirring," Will muses.

"Care to elaborate?"

"Shot a man once. He lived, and took me down with him - and it nearly ruined my life, the guilt. You don't seem ruffled about beating a man to death with a steak mallet."

"I regret the necessity." Hannibal shrugs elegantly. "But it seemed the most logical choice."

"Logical," Will repeats.

"Yes. I was a doctor, Will, I am somewhat practised in making difficult decisions."

"There is a difference between logical and violent."

"Logical violence has its place at all our tables," Hannibal counters, "a farmer shoots the fox who hunts his hens. He doesn't think of the fox, only the hens." He looks Will over, gaze warm as ever. "You see too many foxes."

Fear swallows Will briefly, tingeing his ears pink. "I didn't mean to - accuse you. I don't mean that at all." He takes a deep breath. "I should just thank you again."

"You don't have to thank me. It was entirely in my best interest." He looks up and fixes Will with a glance. "If I am honest, I'd rather you come to me for companionship than out of gratitude."

"That isn't what it was," Will says quickly.

"Was it not?"

"Not - not gratitude, no."

"Good," Hannibal murmurs, wiping his hands on a cloth and taking a step closer. Will resists the urge to step back. He can meet this like a grown man. Though Hannibal's hand rising to cup his cheek still stirs fear and need in him both. It's a heady mix.

He sighs out some of his tension. Hannibal strokes his cheekbone with one elegant thumb.

"What do you need?"

A kiss, he thinks. He leans in, and Hannibal smiles wide. Knowingly, enticingly.

The kiss is as electric and awful as last night. It takes him over. He grips at Hannibal's shoulders before he can stop himself, thrusts a hand into his hair again. It grows in fervour. They both clutch at one another. Hannibal seems just as fierce. Will wants to let himself be moved. He wants Hannibal to move him.

_Please_ , he thinks. Fingers spearing his hair make him sigh. He has never needed like this. Barely even wanted. Barely let himself. It's eating him alive. He desperately wants to be consumed. He's in the right place, he thinks wildly, a sudden flash of an image picturing Budge's body laid out on the worktop.

Like he knows what he's thinking, Hannibal backs him toward the counter.

_I can't I can't I can't_ , he thinks.

Hannibal's mouth goes to his neck, and he clutches him ever more tightly, whole body alight. The press of Hannibal's mouth makes him keen. A scrape of teeth amongst the sandpaper of a close shave. Then the warm touch of a tongue. Will sighs his name quietly and then jolts when his warm hand cups him through his slacks, shaping with a somewhat delighted certainty.

Will is no less certain, though he's less delighted about it. "Hannibal," he gasps softly.

He gets another kiss in response. Roaming hands, gently stroking, quickening his breath. His own hands roam alike. He feels filthy, animal, and he can't stop. All the restraint he had before feels gossamer now. It's like nothing so much as ripping away a mask. He fears the struggle of forcing it back on, enough that he pushes Hannibal back gently. He's relieved when Hannibal doesn't fight it.

"Sorry," Will breathes, voice low. "I'm sorry, I just - this is so much."

"I understand." Hannibal looks tousled, flushed, but unconcerned.

He's a gorgeous man, truth be told. Will aches to reach for him again, and consoles himself with simply smoothing the shoulders of his suit jacket. He allows Hannibal to do the same.

"I'm sorry," Will repeats again, lamely.

"Perhaps some other time," Hannibal murmurs.

"The kitchen seems a reckless choice for it," Will shrugs.

"Perhaps I was momentarily feeling reckless."

"I imagine that doesn't happen often."

A slow smile. He's right. "You inspire a great many unusual feelings in me, Mister Graham."

"Same," Will murmurs.

They regard one another for a moment. "Perhaps we might have a drink later?" Hannibal asks politely.

"A drink," Will agrees, completely aware of what a drink usually means for them. He's not refusing, though. If anything, he's tingling at the thought. And at the need to wait. He bites his lip, and offers quietly, "Perhaps I could help with dinner?"

"I'd be thrilled, Will."

"Tell me what I can do then, Doctor."

Hannibal hums. "I was making some rolls that just need shaping and one more prove, will you knead?"

"If you'd like." Will rolls his sleeves up. He gets the feeling this is all about lowering his boundaries. But he's not about to ask. Part of him is pathetically grateful: he needs the help.

With Hannibal's instruction, he starts to knead the dough before twisting it into careful little mounds on the waiting tray. It's surprisingly enjoyable.

"That's perfect," Hannibal says approvingly, from the stovetop. He’s mixing an egg wash and looking for all the world like some sort of restaurateur.

Will feels a soft glow. His eyes drift to Hannibal. "You do this with everyone? Find their secrets and unravel them?"

"It's part of my job," Hannibal says glibly.

"As a governor?"

"As whatever I'm needed for."

Will frowns at that. "How many households need you for-?" he can't say it.

"One," Hannibal says simply. Their eyes meet. Slowly, Hannibal smiles. "You."

His heart feels arrhythmic. Wordlessly, he turns back to the remaining dough, and keeps working. He feels Hannibal at his back in a few moments. It's too much to resist straightening into his warmth behind him. He hears Hannibal inhale slowly.

"Hannibal..."

Hannibal touches his waist. "Just a little more," he prompts gently. "Some crosses on the tops will let the steam escape."

Will nods silently and keeps shaping. He just wants Hannibal to stay close. Luckily he doesn't seem inclined to leave. He gently coaxes Will through the rest of the process, though he hardly needs instruction. Then he hands him a towel to wipe his hands clean.

"Now just the last prove," he muses.

Will watches as he covers the rolls with a clean towel, then slides the trays back into a warm spot to rise again. He feels unaccountably dishevelled beside Hannibal’s casual elegance. He ought to leave. He leans against the counter instead, holding his own elbows.

Hannibal keeps working, but clearly aware of his audience. Everything has a slight ripple to it. It's enjoyable to watch. Will admires him in so many ways.

"Who taught you to cook?"

"I taught myself, largely." Hannibal looks thoughtful.

"Exclusively?"

"No, but I never made a formal study." He adds, with some consideration, "My aunt was the first person to show me how to cook."

Will stays quiet, transfixed by fascination.

"She was a beautiful woman, graceful and refined, very fierce too." Hannibal minces herbs steadily. "I idolised her."

"She sounds worthy of it."

"Oh, yes." A distant smile on his face now. "She was exceptional."

"You lived with her, then?" Will asks.

"Just for a short while."

Interesting. Will studies him. "Is she still with us?"

"I'm afraid not."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, I am a better person for having known her."

Will lets them have a moment of silence. "She must have been pretty incredible, then."

Hannibal nods. "Truly."

They smile at one another softly. Then Will steps back. "I ought to go wake Lotte."

"Very well." Hannibal smiles at him. Will leaves him in the kitchen, tall and capable.

He misses Lotte, abruptly and fiercely, and finding her blearily rubbing her eyes in her room brings such sudden relief that it still staggers him, even after eight years. He sits on her mattress and lets her climb into his lap. They sit together in complacent quiet, Lotte's wild curls tickling Will's neck. He could sleep like this. He has, many nights. Especially when Lotte was smaller and the dreams were worse.

"Father," she murmurs against his chest.

"Yes darling."

"Could you stay home again tomorrow?"

"I'll try."

"I wish you could stay home every day."

"I know, love."

She sighs. "I know you can't, though. I'm not a baby."

"No, you're not, you're a very clever, very compassionate young lady."

"Father," she sounds pleased.

He strokes her hair. "I'm very proud of you. Every day, Lotte."

"Are you cross with Doctor Lecter?" she asks after a moment.

He frowns. "Cross with him? What do you mean?"

"For what he did."

"He had no choice. He was protecting you. I'll always be grateful for that." He feels her nod, and squeezes her gently. "I have the greatest respect for Doctor Lecter, you know that."

"Yes but - you haven't been talking to him very much."

"I just did earlier, titch. I promise. I helped with the dinner rolls." And that's not even the half of it. He's flushed just remembering. He sighs and strokes her hair again. "We ought to clean up for dinner, love."

"Yes, all right."

He helps her straighten her dress and hair. Then they go downstairs together. As always, dinner smells decadent. Will makes sure he looks smart in the hall mirror before they go through. Best that he's going to get, at least. He needs a decent barber. He grumbles it under his breath as he goes to sit down.

Hannibal greets them both with pleasure, and describes their first course.

"Looks delicious," Will praises. Lotte agrees.

They eat in comfortable quiet. Hannibal serves as usual, and Will thinks anew that he really needs to interview for staff. He just keeps… forgetting. He hasn’t noticed any responses so far, actually.

"Lotte, have you picked a book for bedtime later?"

"Not yet."

"That's all right. We can carry on with the one from the other night if you like," Will offers.

"All right." She smiles up the table at him, He smiles back, then is distracted at the sound of the wind howling down the chimney.

"Terrible weather this autumn," he murmurs.

"It really is," Hannibal murmurs. "Happy to be in a warm house."

Will is too. He remembers being cold a lot as a boy. He's happy Lotte doesn't have to know cold, or hunger. With that thought, he serves her more vegetables, softly shushing her complaints.

"Let's make some cocoa before bed and take it to the sitting room," he decides.

"Excellent idea, Will."

"Please can I have marshmallows?" Lotte asks politely.

"I believe we still have a few from the batch we made the other day." Hannibal eyes her warmly. "Perhaps we could whip some cream, too."

Will shakes his head in resignation. "Just don't make yourself sick," he says gently.

"We won't," Hannibal teases him.

That makes Will chuckle. "Very well."

After dinner, they pile into the kitchen, Missus Cheswick clucking as she washes the remaining plates, watching Hannibal instruct Will on making the perfect cocoa. He follows the directions conscientiously. They only disagree on the amount of cinnamon. Hannibal seems to think Will might change his mind eventually.

Nevertheless, they find themselves cosy in the sitting room, Lotte wrapped in a blanket with her book in her lap while Hannibal takes up an armchair with his sketchbook. Missus Cheswick knits by the fire, sipping her cocoa contentedly. Will lets Lotte read aloud to him. She's exceptional as ever. Even when she tires and her voice gets soft.

"Want me to read a while, darling?"

Lotte nods, and Will lifts the book to his own lap. She settles into his side as he reads. Hannibal glances up occasionally but still sketches quietly. Eventually, Will checks and sees she's asleep. He closes the book softly and looks over at Hannibal.

"I'll put her to bed, then I'll come back," Will says softly.

"As you wish, Will," Hannibal replies.

"I’ll turn in too, Mister Graham."

"Of course, Missus C, thank you so much for everything."

"Nothing to thank me for, loves."

If Will notices she does not bid good evening to Hannibal, it doesn’t stick.

Carrying Lotte carefully up, Will murmurs a final goodnight to Missus Cheswick at the top of the stairs. He rouses Lotte just enough that she knows where she is, then soothes her to sleep again. Downstairs, Hannibal is still sketching when Will returns. Will goes to him, pausing just out of view of the folio.

"You can look," Hannibal allows.

Will comes behind his chair. His breath stalls.

Will is a river god beneath a gnarled willow tree, and Lotte as a little nymph curled beside. It's beautifully detailed and intricate, softly shaded. Paper boats bob on the mirror-like surface of the water.

"Hannibal," he sighs.

"Will." He sounds satisfied.

"Is there anything you can't do?"

"I am not very good at croquet."

Will snorts like the rough dockboy he once was. "Is that all?" He watches Hannibal shrug with a smile on his face.

"I wouldn't know my way around a boat engine."

"Well, if I can learn..." Will smiles back.

"Perhaps you can train me up if you find my governing skills to be lacking."

"I doubt that very highly."

"Something else you might find dissatisfactory, then." His eyes warm with a faint smirk.

Will shakes his head. "I meant my teaching skills, not your ability to learn."

"Ah, I see." Hannibal closes the folio and gestures for Will to sit beside him. "For what it's worth, people are often surprised by their ability to teach."

"I still don't fancy our chances."

He tries not to shy nervously when Hannibal takes his hand. He bends to kiss his knuckles and Will shivers a bit. Hannibal kisses each individual rise of bone.

"You don't have to do that," Will stutters.

"Yes, I do. You're a lovely man."

"I'm -" his ears heat. "No, I'm not."

Hannibal turns his hand over and kisses the palm. "I'm afraid I must respectfully disagree."

Will shivers again. The image of Hannibal biting into the meat of his palm like an apple presents itself to him, and he jerks away before he can stop himself.

A flash of hurt curiosity on Hannibal's face, rendered as if in oils. Then it evens out into acceptance, and he slides to the other side of the couch. Will stares into the middle distance and tries to think of how to explain.

"My imagination is an unpleasant creature, quite separate from the rest of my mind," he says, eventually.

Hannibal nods, all polite attention.

"It shows me things," Will adjusts his sleeves uncomfortably, "sometimes I can't quite shake them." Like the birds, and the woman who birthed them, and Edith Jameson’s empty shoes shuffling across his floor.

"Often?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Yes."

"So… nightmares."

"Sometimes not just when I'm asleep."

"Hallucinations, then?"

"More... vivid daydreams."

"What did it show you just now?"

Will tucks his hands under his arms uncomfortably. "I'm not sure I wish to say."

"Very well." Consternation crosses his features momentarily, before he offers his hand once more. "Would you allow me to show you nothing bad will come of it?"

Will hesitates only a moment. Hannibal's hands are cool and soothing as he cups Will's in his own. His mouth descends again. Hannibal turns his hand and kisses his wrist gently. Will can't help his panting breath.

Another ardent kiss, higher, pushing his sleeves up. The sleek head bends before him. Will can't help what he sees, especially when Hannibal trails back down to his palm and, completely brazen, takes Will's pointer finger into his mouth and sucks. Will moans softly, chest tight.

"H-Hannibal," he breathes softly.

"At your service, Will."

"Don't say that, you make me feel like I'm - using you."

"Not my intention," Hannibal smiles softly.

"What is your intention?"

"To show you how much I treasure you."

Will bites back his sigh. Hannibal is still gently holding Will's hand. "How can you treasure me when I'm nothing but inconvenient to you?" he says, with a dry smile.

"That's simply untrue."

"See if you feel like that in another month."

"Challenge accepted, my good sir."

He can't help but smile. With a slow once over of the room, Will bites his lip and goes to collect the brandy; two glasses. He already feels warm. "Come join me, Doctor Lecter," he whispers, and starts toward his room, trusting the doctor will follow.

Sure enough, the soft click of the switches, and the closing of the door. Hannibal's soft footfalls come to a stop in Will's doorway, and he closes and locks the door behind himself. Leaving them closed in the room, together, with only brandy and a gently crackling fire. And, of course, Will's bed. With his eyes the same amber as the brandy, Hannibal relieves Will of his wares, sets them aside, and goes down on his knees in front of him.

Will gasps. "Hannibal-"

"I'm joining you."

"Somewhat more literal interpretation of what I had in mind."

"I want this. May I have it?"

Will takes a deep breath. "I still can't believe you want to."

"Perhaps a demonstration might convince you." He leans in and nuzzles against the placket of Will's trousers.

With a breathless noise, Will tips back into the wall behind him. He braces himself as Hannibal explores the interested flesh beneath. He feels distinctly foolish. Foolish but aroused.

Hannibal undoes his flies with a hum. His fingers are quick but still caressing. His cheek rasping against Will's underwear is slower. Will makes a soft whining noise, watching speechless. A few soft kisses to his lower stomach before Hannibal starts to ease down his trousers and shorts.

Will lets it happen, quivering in place. His nerves battle his arousal, even when Hannibal nuzzles in and licks at warm skin. It comes out as a low whine.

"Wait," he stutters. He feels Hannibal pause, draw back until they're no longer touching. "I want," Will takes another huge breath, "I want to taste you too."

Hannibal smiles slowly. "You can. I know a way we both can."

He stands, and they start to silently undress one another. Each brush of hands on skin makes Will sigh. His hands are still shaking while he undoes Hannibal's immaculate buttons. Seeing him emerge, seeing him bare, it's like a drug to him. When they're both naked, Will trembling and Hannibal perfectly calm, the latter leads the former to the bed. Will knows he's blushing.

"Kneel for me," Hannibal says, with a kiss at the corner of his mouth, "facing the end of the bed."

Will arranges himself breathlessly. He feels a little ridiculous until Hannibal settles behind him and guides him backward, kissing his spine gently. Then he understands, and his breath goes tight.

Hannibal is effortlessly graceful as he sinks down beneath him, partially propped against the pillows, knees drawn up. It should be ridiculous, but everything from the V of his thighs to his plumping cock is astonishingly beautiful. Will rubs his cheek along one lean bare thigh. Hannibal's breath comes sharp against the back of his own, his hands guiding.

Will closes his eyes and tastes. Startlingly easy to dip his head and mouth at soft skin. At the same time, he feels a mouth on his own. He muffles his noises by taking Hannibal into his mouth. Hard and velvety, a tantalizingly musky taste. It's captivating, so satisfying to feel the stretch in his jaw as Hannibal fattens under the strokes of his lips and tongue. Satisfying to feel his own noises muffled. Maddening to feel his cock engulfed in heat.

It's so good, he's never felt anything exactly like it. Like some kind of sympathetic nervous system, interlocking feelings. Shared rise and fall of sensation. Will gasps at a flickering swallow around his length, and presses himself deeper onto Hannibal's in turn. He works his tongue frantically and is rewarded with a soft, muffled groan. He circles his own hips down for more.

It's so good it aches. So good he can't concentrate on his own movements. He pushes too deep, chokes, but Hannibal just moans softly. His mouth is hot, saliva easing the way, but his lips drag exquisitely. Will gathers himself and returns to his own ministrations with a groan. He concentrates on taking him deep. Absently, his hands wander, fingertips trailing the soft skin of Hannibal's perineum.

It feels as good to him as it must to Hannibal; his hips quiver. Encouraged, he keeps thumbing gently at the soft skin. He can feel the moan it elicits. Slowly, carefully, he pulls off Hannibal's cock to lick lower. He pulls hard at the backs of Hannibal's thighs to get him where he wants him.

That at least gets a little groan of surprise. Will is on a mission to taste the newly bared skin. The results are clean musk and Hannibal's urgent whispers of his name.

Will moans softly. He drags the flat of his tongue against Hannibal's hole before he laps in experimentally. It's intoxicating. Even more so at the way Hannibal moves into it, so clearly hungry for more. Will presses deeper. He's so hungry for the way Hannibal moves for it, like he's cracked that control. He's bridging helplessly, cock rubbing against Will's chest, his toes curled.

Will makes a guttural noise and spreads him more. Hannibal can't reach him to suck him now, but he seems somewhat preoccupied regardless. Satisfied, Will keeps going. He can feel Hannibal's nails digging into his back. It's a surprised feeling, that he reads in the grip, but Will can't help but devour him. He feels possessed by the need to know him like no one else has. To have something he's never given.

Whether it's a figment of his fantasies, he can't be sure. Being alone with Hannibal is almost always like dreaming. His hands are creeping further up Will's back now, clutching as he arches his hips.

"Will," he's whispering. "Will, inside me."

He smears his mouth against the inside of one lean thigh, fingers curling against the ballet dancer length of his ankle. "My fingers-?"

"Please."

He shifts to oblige him, wetting them with his tongue, teasing in with the middle to a sigh of content. He only pulls back far enough to rearrange himself. "Let me get something to make this easier."

They slip apart, and Will moves for the bedside, digging out the jar of balm he keeps out of habit to moisturise dry hands; this is an unexpected new use.

Hannibal gives him an indulgent smile and turns lazily onto his stomach, and Will can't help just looking at him for a moment. He's like something out of a dream, carved from marble, all smooth lines and dancer's grace.

Blood is heated already, Will kneels onto the mattress between his thighs. With slicked fingers, he presses between his thighs, hears Hannibal's softly hitched breath.

"Will," Hannibal breathes, arching into his touch.

Will just gives him this, for a few aching minutes, pumping his fingers in slick and slow, feeling the flesh turn soft, hearing Hannibal's quiet gasps for more. He's so warm and lush here, shivering and clenching when Will angles his fingers down and strokes deep. He feels privileged to see Hannibal like this, vulnerable and open. He presses a quelling hand to his own hardness, and then keeps gently working inside. Strange, to feel need. His lonely journey through fatherhood thus far hasn't left him much appetite for this.

It's not that he hadn't known where to go. There are places, here in London. Places a man who is gentler on himself than Will is might go to forget all this horror. But it never sat right, and now - Will has this.

He leans down to kiss the small of Hannibal's spine.

"More?" he murmurs.

"Just you," Hannibal whispers, though he hasn't stopped bridging back into the rocks of Will's wrist.

"Are you... ready?"

"Of course."

"Very well," Will murmurs, smearing him with more balm. He has to reach down beneath Hannibal's body to stroke him briefly too, the taste of him still in the back of his mouth, his cock warm and velvety and so hard.

Hannibal helpfully lifts his hips again, letting Will take him in hand and stroke for a few moments before he makes another impatient little sound.

"You know what I want," he murmurs.

Will does know. He uses the remaining slick on his cock and then spreads Hannibal gently with his hands, letting himself rub hot against him, closing his eyes against the flood of sensation. It's easy to want too much, and he feels that way now, starting to press in, moaning through ground teeth. It's been so long.

"Oh God..."

Hannibal has no way of knowing, but Will is still sure he does somehow. He looks so elegant and well-made beneath Will, arching up beneath him to take him faster, fingers visibly clenching in the sheets.

"Will," it's nearly inaudible, but Will obeys the unspoken command, pushing deeper with a soft groan.

"Hannibal," he breathes.

"Don't be timid, sweet boy," Hannibal assures calmly, "faster now."

It's enough to make Will groan again. He does as he's told, bending low and whining when Hannibal tangles a hand into his curls, twisting and arching to bring their mouths together.

"Perfect, Will," he whispers.

Will thrusts into him with a physical thrill of delight. It's so easy to meet the nearly greedy pushes of Hannibal's hips, the most indecorous Will has ever known him, lips gaping and breaths rushed. He's practically begging Will to take control, and Will is only too happy to wrap him up in his arms and let his hips surge fast.

It feels inhumanly good to do it, even better for Hannibal's plain enjoyment: he's making soft, yearning noises with every thrust. His hands tug, and he kisses Will again and again, hips tilted to get closer to him, body an artful twist. He's lithe and tempting and perfect.

Will holds his breath as he circles his hips; strokes deeper, searching for the angle that makes Hannibal shake. When he finally finds it, he picks up the pace, breaths panting through his parted lips.

"Will, yes-" Hannibal's hand tightens, and he breathes Will's name in an entirely different voice now, less pleased than pleading. Entirely needy, utterly debauched with desire.

It makes Will's heart pound, makes him crazed in a way he doesn't think he's ever been, desperate and greedy to fuck in relentlessly, feeling the sweet heat Hannibal sheds. Before he can stop himself, he sinks his teeth into Hannibal's shoulder, and god. That feels _so good_. He feels Hannibal jerk and flicker around him, and his low, shocked moan tells Will he likes it too.

Will kisses the mark as he rocks deeper, quicker, rendering Hannibal panting now, repeating his name. Will can barely breathe himself; he can feel Hannibal's body tightening around him, tight and hot and sinfully good. He traces his tongue over the teeth marks.

"Again," Hannibal commands. And then he repeats it when Will doesn't respond fast enough. "Will. Now."

Will bites into the same spot, just a little higher, and rocks his hips firmly. Hannibal's low hiss of approval makes his skin sing, and he lets his teeth close a little harder.

Now Hannibal is pushing back into every thrust wildly, his elegant hands braced against the headboard, body naturally twisting to brace himself for Will's movements, one hip against the mattress and his long legs bent to maximise contact. He's panting like he's run a marathon, gloriously affected and sweat glossed.

Will's own hands bite into his hips. Letting himself go is both hard and easy. He snaps forward into Hannibal's body, astonished by the way it draws him in and seems so reluctant to let him go. Their skin slaps, and Hannibal's knuckles whiten as he clamps down tight around Will with a hiss of his name.

Will pistons faster for a moment, and then stalls, spilling with abandon, teeth bared against it, his whole body shuddering. It feels endless, head-spinning, like Will is turning through unreality - but Hannibal feels solid beneath him.

When Will reaches to touch him, he finds he's slick with his own release, and he has to touch the wetness on his stomach, shot through with pleasure.

"Hannibal..." He breathes in, out. "Oh..."

Hannibal's hand covers his own, his lean stomach trembling as Will runs a hand up into the soft hair on his chest, and then back down. "Will...beloved...."

"Do you need anything more?" Will asks softly.

"Nothing but a clean flannel and your arms," Hannibal tells him.

Even so, he doesn't let Will up for a minute, his gentle request so reasonable. "Just a moment longer with you inside, please, Will."

"Of course," Will whispers.

He buries his face against Hannibal's well-maintained hairline and gently rocks his hips. It's just this side of too much, but the noise Hannibal makes is worth it: reverent, divine.

He laces their fingers and twists to kiss him again. "Once more, and then I'll let you go."

"Once more," Will breathes, and surges forward again.

Hannibal's soft moan tastes sweet against his tongue. Will presses in for a long moment before finally slipping free of his body and levering himself, panting, out of bed. He goes to the washbasin on the far side of the room and wets a cloth, returning to Hannibal when he's cleaned himself up.

Hannibal accepts the cloth and gracefully cleans himself as well, moving to a sitting position against the pillows. He beckons Will close when he's finished, and Will has no hesitation tucking himself against Hannibal's shoulder. It's easy to get entangled in another bout of immersive kisses: one of the few ways Will has found to, simply, stop thinking.

Hannibal seems to be a particularly effective aid in that endeavour. It's _restful_ , even discounting the significant physical exertion, with Hannibal stroking through his curls gently, their chests resting together, inflating and deflating in rhythym.

"May I stay?"

"Please," Will murmurs.

Hannibal beams at him softly. "Thank you."

"Thank you for what?"

"For letting me in, Will. For giving me this."

Will bites his lip and simply nods. It hasn't been easy, but he doesn't regret it. He'd long since stopped expecting anything like this.

"How's Lotte?" Hannibal asks softly.

"She looked to be deep asleep when I took her up. She's been...content."

"I was worried she'd be struggling to sleep..."

"We've made sure she feels safe."

Hannibal sighs, and Will thinks maybe he's feeling guilty still.

"Don't fret," he whispers, "she knows you."

"You both do," Hannibal replies softly.

Will smiles at that. He thinks he's starting to.

"I still can't believe Budge came here," he whispers after a moment.

"A difficult reality to entertain, even now it has come to pass," Hannibal agrees.

"Maybe we'll all forget it in time."

"I certainly hope Charlotte does." He bites his lip, searching Will's face with those dark eyes. "You don't blame me."

"How could I? You were right about a dangerous man."

"And I pointed you to him." He touches the fading purple mark on Will's throat.

"For a reason."

"He could have killed you."

"Yes, he could have. What...would you have done if he had?"

"I would have killed him." Hannibal doesn't hesitate.

"You _did_ kill him."

"I thought he'd killed you."

"He didn't manage."

"I wouldn't have left Charlotte," Hannibal adds quickly. "Never."

"Not even if I'd died?" Will whispers.

"Never." Hannibal touches his cheek. "I would have done whatever it took."

Will bites his lip. Those words have unmoored something fearful and primitive.

"Hannibal..."

"Tell me, beloved," he whispers.

Will can't speak. His eyes and the back of his throat prickle, and he has to push his face into Hannibal's throat.

"I don't deserve you," he mumbles.

"You do. Lotte does."

"Lotte does," Will repeats.

"She's part of you, Will," Hannibal whispers, "you made her what she is, and you've given her everything. Every book she could ask for, love and shelter, enrichment aplenty, and she is so bravely and unapologetically herself. You don't know what good you've done for her yet, but you will, one day."

"I hope so," Will whispers back.

"I promise you."

"Promises," Will says softly, pressing his face in again and inhaling. Hannibal wraps his arms tighter around him, and Will feels the way it drains the tension out of both of their spines.

It's easy, finally, to drift down into sleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Hannibal regards Will as he sleeps with something jealous and foreign blooming in the pit of his stomach; a seed that unfurls the first shoots of possessiveness. It's been flourishing in him for some time now. The dawn brings another few green leaves. It tastes a little like love.

He can hear Missus Cheswick moving about the house, and he rises, taking himself to his room while the landing is deserted to wash and dress.

He'll have everything Will needs correct and ready, hopefully by the time he wakes. He flatters himself that it might be some time yet - Will had been quite worn out by the time they'd come to their mutual completion last night. Worn out, and so very sweet with it, entirely deserving of a night without bad dreams. Such a singular creature. He's more breathtaking every day.

Hannibal amuses himself with the thought as he goes down to start on preparations for breakfast. Sweets for Miss Lotte. Something substantial for Will, who insists on working so hard. Enough for Missus Cheswick, who has never so much as thanked him for his efforts. And will not, he suspects. Though friendly enough, she avoids him quite openly now unless he's in Will's presence - or he speaks to her directly.

Will, on the other hand, clearly has relied on her since Lotte was small, and has forgotten what it is like not to. Time to remind him that he only needs his family, Hannibal decides. He thinks he'll be successful.

Breakfast is a pleasant affair, as usual. Lotte has decided a loophole for breakfast time reading is her father's newspaper, and she reads the business pages to him, her small, sweet voice discordant with the subject.

They only have need to pause twice, once to explain amortisation and once to describe the city of Calais.

"I certainly feel more adequately prepared for my workday than I ever have before, darling," Will praises, sipping the last of his coffee, knife and fork laid down politely. His eyes flash once as he glances at Hannibal, then they return to Lotte. "Take a break from reading to eat, titch."

"I will make sure she finishes, Will," Hannibal assures gently.

"Mm." He folds his used napkin as he stands, moving through to the kitchen as he talks. "I'm back at work today, but hopefully I won't be late. Thank you, Hannibal," he adds softly, when he returns, napkinless and looking a little sheepish to be leaving before either of them have finished.

"My pleasure," Hannibal tells him.

Will bites his lip, watching him a split second longer and then going to kiss Lotte goodbye. His wonderful empathetic nature is on show. He struggles again before giving Hannibal a brisk squeeze on the shoulder.

"Have a good day, both of you," he murmurs, and then takes his leave.

"Well," Hannibal says cheerfully to Lotte. "Now it is we two."

"And Missus Cheswick," Lotte observes, still reading the newspaper as she eats.

"Well, yes."

She catches his eye, over the edge of the paper, and gives him a shy little grin. "Classics and languages today?"

"Yes, my dear, that is our plan."

She nods, and daintily sips a cup of cocoa, mimicking him with his own teacup, not mocking but without conscious effort. It's the kind of thing that reminds him so much of her parentage.

"Are you nearly finished with your breakfast?" he asks her, somewhat pointedly: Will is not here to be amused at her anymore and Hannibal has responsibilities to carry out.

With another impish little grin, she folds down the paper and goes back to her plate obediently. Then she's done within minutes.

Hannibal washes the remaining dishes while she goes to collect her things and choose the book she wants to work on today. His mind drifts back to Will, as it is prone to do, and he smiles to himself as he looks out of the window. For once, the weather is fine.

Absently drying his hands when the last of the pots are away, Hannibal moves through the house, up the stairs toward the classroom. He’s caught by the scent of Will from the landing, sweeter every day, and he can’t resist going inside his room, looking around at his orderly, bland space, and the comforting evidence of his presence. A pair of seldom-worn spectacles on the bedside, the wire legs slightly bent. A rather limited selection of neckties hung over the back of a chair, spare collars on the drawers. The suits he wears are neatly pressed and hung in his armoire, unders folded and stacked in drawers with pocket squares and braces. Such a controlled life, and a controlled man, doing his best to defend his small section of the world from the chaos. From Hannibal’s chaos.

A small selection of photos catch his eye where they’re sitting on a handsome dresser of simple dark wood, and Hannibal moves to examine those too, smiling immediately: they’re nearly all of Lotte. There are baby photos in a multiframe, too fanciful to be anything Will put together himself, all showing a solemn-faced little girl in her Christening whites and first babygrows, dark curls already in full force. Another in tarnished silver filigree shows Will holding Lotte at perhaps three years old on a gloomy beach, both of them windblown, only Will smiling – looking faintly embarrassed. There’s another that looks more recent, if the high-quality of the photography is anything to go by. Lotte sits in an elegant paper moon, surrounded by stars. She looks bashful, and a mite mistrustful, but reluctantly pleased all the same. It’s all too easy to imagine Will gently encouraging her from behind the camera. Her sweet eyes shine, and Hannibal picks it up to inspect more closely. This sight, too, triggers that overwhelming bloom of love. He’s besotted with them both; desperate to be so known as the knowing he spends on them.

With the scent of them both thick in his nose, he heads back to the schoolroom, where he finds Lotte patiently waiting.

*

She is on marvellous form the entire morning. It nearly distracts him from his other set of concerns. Those arrive just before lunch, when Lotte is waiting at the table, and the afternoon post arrives. Hannibal frowns faintly. A few envelopes addressed to him - he had of course contacted the paper about Will's ad and amended the contact name before it went into the paper. These must be applications. He'll dispose of them, of course, but he's curious to read them first.

As expected, nothing particularly appealing. Hannibal folds the letters and throws them into the fire before he goes back to his work.

Lotte goes up for her mid-afternoon rest as he heads to the kitchen for dinner preparations. She had started to wander in Greek, mixing up her perfect and pluperfect. He thinks despite her perkiness, she's slept poorly again. It's really no wonder. She's been exposed to quite a bit outside her realm of experience recently.

He keeps an ear trained for the sounds of her as he preps for dinner. Instead, he hears a heavier tread. He looks up from the stove: Missus Cheswick. Hannibal offers her a nod as she hovers at the door.

"Miss Lotte asked for a glass of water."

"I hadn't realised her pitcher was empty, did you bring it with you?"

Missus Cheswick nods, raising it.

"Come in, I'll fill it." He's amused by her hovering; she's already realised the new borders of his domain.

He runs the water until it's cold and she brings him the pitcher, looking over the ingredients spread over the countertop. She's never shown much interest before, and Hannibal watches her out of the corner of his eye as he fills it.

"I don't remember buying a roast at market," she says after a moment.

"Hardly surprising," he dismisses, "you seem more and more absent minded as of late, Missus Cheswick. Perhaps it's the stress - things have been hectic lately."

As expected, she bristles. "I'm not infirm."

"Of course not. You're a capable woman. This has just been an unusual time period for the household."

"Suppose so," she mutters, "I'll check the receipts."

Satisfied at his efforts to sow confusion, he hands her the pitcher. "You do that." He smiles and nods politely. She takes the pitcher, and he smiles to himself. "Have a lovely afternoon, Mrs. Cheswick."

She flicks him a cursory smile as she disappears. Hannibal watches her go. Really, he sees several problems here. Thankfully, he's good at solving problems. Will should appreciate it… eventually. When it's just the three of them. When they're a family.

Satisfied with his vision, Hannibal looks out the window, and sees birds fleeing toward the horizon. He smiles at that too.

*

When Will gets home, he brings with him the scent of autumn. Hannibal meets him at the door and plucks a feather from his hair.

"Welcome home," he murmurs.

"Good evening. Fetching apron."

"Functional," Hannibal replies.

"Can't it be both?" Will lets Hannibal take his coat with a blushing grimace.

"As you say, sir." Hannibal allows his eyes to crinkle slightly. He goes to hang Will's coat while he heads to wake Lotte. Another feather clings to the shoulder. Hannibal tucks it in his waistcoat pocket with the other. He goes through to the kitchen to check on dinner, pleased.

*

After the roast is consumed and the dishes cleared, after Lotte is read to and put to bed, he finds himself alone with Will once more. He's rubbing the bridge of his nose, preoccupied with a file.

"Would you like to talk about it?" Hannibal finally asks.

"Just thinking about Edith Jameson," Will murmurs, moving on to agitatedly scratching his neck, eyes never leaving the page. "I want to know what she did. She did something she shouldn't, I know it. She offended someone."

"Perhaps she did something to be noticed."

"Mmm, I don't think she did anything that big, ever. She was a spinster. A teacher. Always. Maybe that was... the problem. Maybe she wasn't enough." Then he glances at Hannibal. "Not that - it's not enough, Hannibal, to be a teacher."

"I'm aware you're speaking hypothetically."

"Well, you knew her," Will replies. "I should have spoken to you for my report, I know; it had occurred to me that I should, just for completeness, but there was always something else on my mind."

"We were merely acquainted. Distantly," Hannibal says coolly.

"I know; I just - I'm at a loss, Hannibal. What did she do, that someone would target her for such punishment?"

"It was important to someone," Hannibal points out. "Are you so sure they needed someone else to understand?"

"Doesn't everyone need to be understood?" Will counters, and watches Hannibal's expression soften somewhat. "I need you to understand how important I find you," Will whispers.

Hannibal holds his gaze, and then smiles faintly. "Come and show me," he whispers.

He sees Will's faintly agonised glance back at his files, but he doesn't hesitate to stand. Haltingly, expression weary, he kneels down in front of Hannibal. Hannibal's breath catches.

A hand in Will's hair earns him the sweetest sigh; his lashes fluttering down. His hands smooth slowly up the woolen material covering Hannibal's thighs.

"I had a long day," he murmurs, "I don't - I don't like being away from home."

"We don't much like it either," Hannibal replies gently.

Will sighs. "I suppose not."

"Trust me," Hannibal adds, stroking his hair.

Will leans into his hand. "I do." He blinks slowly, then looks down at his hands. "I'm tired," he whispers.

"Oh, my darling. You can rest with me."

"I should keep working."

"I don't think you want to."

"I don't want to. But I want to catch a murderer."

"I know you do."

Will lowers his forehead against Hannibal's knee; something Hannibal gauges to require an extraordinary level of trust, despite all they've been through. "Help me," he whispers.

Hannibal watches him for a moment, rapt at his pain, and then he leans forward to cradle his dipped head in his hands; touch his temples with his thumbs and feel the heat radiating from within his skull. "Help you how, Will?"

"Help me catch him," Will breathes. "You knew about Budge, I know you can."

"I'm not a detective, Will. But I can listen, if you want to talk."

Will makes a soft sound, cheek rubbing against Hannibal's knee. "I don't… want to talk right now."

"What would you like to do, Will?"

A flash of crystal eyes as he looks up. "What may I, Hannibal?"

"Whatever you like. Whatever you need. Always."

A soft sigh, then he nuzzles higher. With a growing warmth lighting in the cavern of his chest, Hannibal lets him. He feels hands at the fastenings of his trousers, unsure but determined.

"Will..." he murmurs softly. "This is not a good place-"

"I want to."

Hannibal sighs. He strokes his hair as Will hitches him down the seat, working on his undershorts. He ought to stop this, perhaps. He can't help but indulge him, though. He's so sweet, and trusting, and intent, mouthing at Hannibal's skin slow and tentative. Hannibal allows his breaths to become audible as the warm, wet drag increases.

"Will," he breathes softly.

A hum, soft but not tentative.

"Come up here," Hannibal murmurs. A head shake, but Hannibal is insistent. "Come," he presses, and Will makes a faint noise of complaint as he kneels up over his lap. Hannibal cups his chin and kisses him lightly.

"You don't want me to?" Will says, weakly.

"Do you wish that housekeeper of yours to discover us?"

Will bites his lip; frowns down at their laps. "She'll be in bed, I just..."

"She might not be. She might hear..."

Will sags, defeated. He withdraws. "All right." Perhaps Hannibal has miscalculated.

"Come to my room," he urges softly.

Will hesitates. "I - I don't want to sleep..."

"I know, dear Will."

Will sighs. "This is my house," he says stubbornly.

"I know that too. I am trying to protect you..."

"I want you, Hannibal," Will whispers urgently. "Tell me what I must do to have you."

A soft sigh leaves him at Will's words. Hannibal reaches up and cups his cheek. "You must let me take you to bed. I won't let you have bad dreams."

Will chews on his bottom lip for a moment, looking fleetingly young. "Yes, all right." He accepts Hannibal's arms; yields to them, curling down against his chest for a moment. Hannibal smiles against his curls.

"You feel warm," he comments softly.

"I feel warm," Will confirms, sounding half dazed.

Frowning, Hannibal touches his forehead with his palm. "You are warm. To bed with you, then."

"I don't want to," Will complains.

"I will stay with you," Hannibal murmurs.

That seems a more reasonable prospect. Will allows himself to be set on his feet while Hannibal banks the fire and turns off the lights. He fastens his trousers with a faint sigh while Will is occupied with collecting his files. They walk quietly up the stairs together.

Seeming embarrassed, Will doesn't say much while Hannibal strips him carefully out of his slacks and waistcoat, and hangs them for laundering. He doesn't resist being tucked in, but brightens when Hannibal undresses as well.

"You're really staying."

"I really am," Hannibal murmurs.

Will stifles a yawn against his hand. When Hannibal stretches out beside him, he curls in like a comma. It's a foreign kind of intimacy - no precursor, no excuses, just craving contact. No attempt, this time, to invoke pleasure. Hannibal's curious affection trips in the dark and stumbles into something altogether deeper. Something with teeth. He leans his cheek against Will's forehead and inhales.

"Mm?" Will squeezes him gently. He smells sweet.

"Just sleep, Will."

He needs sleep most of all. Within the contemplative silence where he probably considers arguing, Will drifts off. Hannibal hears the change in his breathing and memorises it.

The whole house is quiet, no sounds from Lotte, no pottering from Missus Cheswick. Just velvet dark and warmth. Just the two of them. Holding the strange feeling aloft, examining it from every angle like a diamond cut from purest night, Hannibal cherishes.

*

He stirs in the night when Will sits up on the edge of the bed in the dark. Hannibal watches him, sleep still clinging to his senses, but Will doesn't react when he reaches to touch his side. He's lost in some private dream of his own, it seems, though when Hannibal sits up, Will's eyes are open.

Intrigued, Hannibal reaches out to palm his shoulder. "Will?"

Still no reaction. Hannibal is so curious, but underneath it he knows that whatever this is, it's dangerous for Will.

Gently, he guides him back down by his shoulders, wrapping an arm over him in the dark. He's stiff, nearly vibrating, but Hannibal merely presses in to kiss under his ear, stroking his chest to rouse him.

"Will, lovely thing. Wake now."

A little gentle shaking gets a murmur and Will sighs, turning into his arms, and Hannibal lets him settle once more. He mumbles something unintelligible into Hannibal's chest.

"It's all right," Hannibal assures softly. "I am here, Will. I'll take care of you."

"And Lotte," Will says blearily.

"Of course."

They sleep again, twined close.

*

Will seems groggy in the morning, but doesn't mention waking in the night.

"Are you quite well?" Hannibal asks him in the kitchen, when Will comes in looking a little lost, asking for water.

"Just feel - tired," Will sighs. "My head's killing me."

"I will bring you a headache powder with your coffee, then."

"I can get it," Will murmurs.

"No, Will, please. Let me."

He hesitates like he might deny him, but then he just takes his water and thanks him politely.

Hannibal keeps preparing the meal, mind ribboning along all the different ways he could examine his growing awareness of Will’s problems. When he takes breakfast through to the dining room, Lotte is watching Will, book uncharacteristically absent. Her expression is vaguely concerned.

Will, however, is flipping through correspondence at the table. He's distracted to the point of near-rudeness throughout breakfast, but Hannibal is pleased to see Lotte does not allow his lax manners to influence her own.

She asks him politely about his work day, clearly hoping he won't be late.

"Hopefully I’ll be back for dinner, sweetheart," Will tells her, finally setting his plate onto the wheels and rising to finish his coffee hastily before Missus Cheswick helps him into his jacket and coat.

"Thank you for breakfast, Doctor Lecter, excellent as usual. Lotte, have a good day." He kisses her goodbye and sweeps out to the hall.

Without letting his consternation show, Hannibal returns his attention to Lotte, engaging her in a discussion about their upcoming week of study.

She indulges him a while, but by the time they're in the schoolroom she’s gone quiet, almost bashful.

Patient, Hannibal stacks his materials neatly before looking over at her desk. "Lotte, are you well?"

"I want to ask you something, but I'm afraid you'll be cross with me," she whispers, looking at her hands.

"My dear, all that I could ask is that you are polite, which you always are." She still seems doubtful, and so he eyes her earnestly. "I promise I won't be cross."

Finally, she bites her lip, then nods, looking very much like her father. "I had a bad dream last night," she says, very quietly, "and I came to find father in his room..."

Ah. He understands now. He keeps his expression the same as he reaches out and strokes back her curls, growing long now. "Tell me why you were worried I'd be cross."

"Because I saw you sleeping there too," she whispers.

"You came to find your father because you had a bad dream. He had one too. I promised you I would look after him."

"Did it work?" Lotte asks.

"I believe so." He smiles at her, and she gives him a small smile back. "May I tell you a secret, Lotte?"

She bites her lower lip and nods, and Hannibal takes a steadying breath.

"You and your father are very important to me. I don't think I ever knew how important. And I want to stay with you always, if that would be all right with you, Miss Lotte."

"Oh!" She whispers it. "Well, that's not at all… usual, is it, Doctor?"

"No, I don't suppose it is. Is it important to you to be usual, Lotte?"

"Father and I never have been," she shrugs her little shoulders. "He always said I should be myself."

"To me, that means being here with your father and you."

"Do you love us?" She asks, her little voice so clear and bell-like; laced with doubt.

"Very much, Lotte."

She visibly processes this information, and then she turns and pushes herself into his arms, burying her face in his chest. He's surprised despite himself. Despite knowing how the Grahams work. An uncomfortably fragile feeling sitting in his chest, he folds his arms gently around Lotte, and inhales sharply at her grateful squeeze.

"He might be embarrassed, if I come to him and you're there," she mumbles after a moment, uncommonly astute.

"He might, but not because there's anything bad happening. Your father tries to be brave for you, is all." His chest is full of warmth at Lotte’s solemn little nod of understanding. "But you're welcome any time, Lotte. I won't always be there, but even if I am, he's your father, and you are always his top priority. And mine."

"I don't know if that last part is quite true," she admits, after a slow breath. He peers at her, faintly put out by the correction, but then she smiles softly. "I know you mean it, though."

"I do."

"Of course... Hannibal." A Graham, through and through. He loves her even more intensely for the likenesses he sees in her.

Finally he's able to get her refocused on work, though part of his own mind is distracted, lingering on Will, wondering what he's doing. He finds it... irritating not to know. But Lotte is preoccupying, and so intensely worthy of his time. And quite obviously, she is his priority. He loves her in a way he didn’t know he could love anyone.

*

When morning lessons are finished, they make lunch together in the kitchen, Lotte standing on a step stool solemnly chopping apples, Hannibal beside her.

"I miss Father today," Lotte confesses quietly.

"I do agree, Miss Lotte."

She sighs softly. "I liked when he came to the museum, even though it wasn't planned."

"Well perhaps I'll ask if tomorrow we could meet him for lunch, mm?"

That lights her up for a moment. "Yes, let's!"

He smiles at her. An outing would do her good.

"But for today, classics, and mathematics, and then your reading."

"Yes, Doctor Lecter," she says politely. They exchange a confidential smile, and she passes him her prepared ingredients.

*

He takes himself back to the kitchen to prepare dinner while she rests in the afternoon, earlier than he normally might: he wants tonight’s meal to be something special. He's missed Will as well, and the thought of him coming home is such a keen pleasure – one he wants to ensure Will doesn’t forget.

Turning on the wireless and settling to the sounds of classical overtures, he washes and preps his ingredients, listening for the familiar patter of Will's arrival routine; door, steps, satchel, jacket handed off, asking for Lotte.

When it finally comes, it sounds different, somehow. Slow.

Hannibal tilts his head and turns down the wireless as he listens, continuing with his stirring, patiently waiting for Will to appear.

When he finally comes into the kitchen, he's holding Lotte's hand, talking to her softly, her listening intently to whatever he's telling her. They stay bent close for a moment, Will clearly gauging her understanding of whatever words they’ve exchanged, and then he finally straightens up. She tugs at his hand, and with a tired smile, he hoists her up into his arms. The circles under his eyes seem so much darker today, and he smells faintly of stale sweat. Something else too, that acid sweetness from before. Hannibal isn’t exactly sure when he first started to notice it, but he thinks it was before last night.

"Hello, Doctor Lecter," Will greets, lifting Lotte onto the spare counter, "Lotte was just telling me about her day."

"Was she?" He smiles welcomingly.

"She was." Will smiles at her too, brushing her hair back. It's curling wildly after her nap. She gives Hannibal a sleepy little smile and hides her face in Will's shoulder as he regards Hannibal.

Hannibal looks him over keenly, looking so weary, but smiling at Hannibal sweetly too. He would die for both of them, he thinks. Kill for both of them.

"We both are glad to see you home."

"Glad too," Will whispers. Then, he sighs. "I have a headache. Do you mind if I go sit down?"

"Of course not, I'll call you for dinner, unless you'd rather not eat?"

"No, I can eat. How long will it be-?"

"Three-quarters of an hour, perhaps?"

"Perfect. Gonna come keep me company, Titch?"

"If you like, Father."

"You can stay in here with Hannibal if you'd rather."

"I'll come with you."

He carries her with him, shooting Hannibal a nod of regard.

Hannibal stays quietly concerned as he finishes dinner. When he goes to fetch them, Will is asleep, Lotte quietly reading to him. She glances up and smiles at him.

"Is he all right, Lotte?" Hannibal asks, testing his temperature with the back of his knuckles gently.

"I hope so," she frowns.

"A bit warm," Hannibal tells her, "but he is prone to temperatures with his headaches. Would you go and put the centre piece on the table, sweet girl, while I wake him up?"

She nods and scurries off. Hannibal seats himself next to Will and touches his cheek. He can't help but admire him, flushed and flawless in sleep. When he stirs, he seems reluctant to wake, but he smiles when he sees Hannibal.

"I'm late for dinner, aren't I?"

"Not at all. Is everything okay?"

"Just tired. Dinner smells wonderful."

"It is. Come on." He pulls him gently to his feet, and Will leans into him briefly as they walk, pulling away before they enter the dining room. With remote interest, Hannibal wonders if Lotte will bring up what she saw to her father, too. If she hasn't already.

He would dearly love to know, but he thinks their understanding is more silent than spoken. They're two of a kind. Even their actions at the table are oddly synchronised, the way they cut up all their food before they start to eat; the times they stop to drink. 

Affection for them irrepressibly looming one more, Hannibal sends them off together after the meal, too: he wants to encourage Will to rest more, and he seems to do that best with Lotte close by. Meanwhile, he puts the kitchen to rights, enjoying the order of the house under his precise care; the way the larder is full and the plates are empty, and his family are cosy in their sitting room by the fire.

Joining them when his work is done, he enjoys listening to Lotte chirpily telling Will about the book of poems she's reading in Latin, charmed by Will’s attentive interest – no dozing off this time. It’s Lotte who tires first, yawning against Will’s shoulder; sleepily asking if she can go to bed.

"Very well. You want me to read to you for a change?" Will asks her, his voice so soft and rough.

"Doctor Lecter could read to both of us," Lotte says tentatively.

"Lotte, Doctor Lecter has been working hard all day, darling..."

"So have you and Lotte," Hannibal points out. "I'd love to read to you."

When Will meets his eyes, he lets them show warmth, and Will sighs softly in defeat. He's so easy to soothe, now that he trusts Hannibal.

"All right," he relents.

He sends Lotte upstairs with Missus Cheswick. Hannibal restricts himself to a single gentle comment. "She's such a big girl, hardly needs a nursemaid to help with her clothes."

"I know that," Will mutters, "I just want her – when Lotte is alone, she gets frightened of things in the dark."

"Of course, Will. It was just a comment on her level of responsibility."

Will closes his eyes. "Yes. Of course."

Hannibal tilts his head. "Have I misspoken?"

"No," Will murmurs. "Just - I don't want her to have to grow up before she needs to. She's a child. I don't want to give her this 'too old for' cut off. I don't ever want her to think she's too old to ask for help, or to be protected from what she fears. One day she’ll learn they’re not real, but while she’s still young, I want her to know we won’t let anything happen to her, or leave her alone with things that scare her."

He sounds like this is a long-held wish. Hannibal remembers what he knows of Will’s own upbringing.

"You're quite right," he murmurs. When Will looks at him, eyes soft and bright, lips eminently kissable, Hannibal does so before he can temper himself. It's reckless, but Will makes Hannibal reckless; makes him hungry.

He flatters himself that he makes Will feel something similar. He's gripping Hannibal like he fears letting go. It makes a thrill like no other run through him, seizing both their breaths until Hannibal remembers himself; cups Will’s cheek and eases him back.

"Come along."

Wryly smiling, Will walks upstairs at his side.

Lotte is in bed, dutifully holding her chosen book, and Will settles down next to her, leaving the side chair to Hannibal.

He feels very much like a teacher as he settles down, taking out his reading spectacles with a little 'embarrassed' look at Lotte that makes her laugh. It works every time, but Will has never seen it before.

He looks charmed. Hannibal stifles a smile and turns to the marked page in Lotte's book, and begins to read, feeling both sets of blue eyes upon him. From the corner of his vision, he can see Will stroke Lotte's hair to the rhythm of his cadence, and after a while his eyes look nearly as heavy as hers. Hannibal almost hopes he drifts off too - carrying him to bed would be immensely satisfying, if not for the fact that he’s certain Will would be quite put out. Never mind; he satisfies himself quite well with imagining it.

As he turns the pages, feeling the eyes upon him grow heavy, he becomes vaguely aware of a shadow moving under the crack of the door; Missus Cheswick, hovering. He can almost see her, clutching her shawl around herself, cringing at the door like a cowering rodent. He keeps his voice and his manner soothing, but his mind turns sharp, another thread running like water. He pursues the thought of teaching her a lesson, simply for having the gall to _snoop_ , but stifles it for now: she hasn't quite earned the brunt of his ire… yet.

But eventually, he reasons, and whatever happens... she will have to go. The Grahams are his now, and he doesn't like to share. He can be everything that they need. They can be everything that he needs, in turn. He thinks they could be something special, together.


	13. Chapter 13

Will isn't sure how long Hannibal reads to Lotte, just that the sound of his voice holds him motionless like a fly in molasses. He's drifting, but he thinks his eyes are open. Beyond the blurry awareness he has of Hannibal and Lotte, something else hovers at the corner of his vision. Something that breathes in the room with them.

When Will turns his head toward it, and trains his stubborn brain to focus, he thinks it's a shadow.

_The shadows are breathing,_ he wants to tell Hannibal. But the more he looks, the more they start to take the shape of a man.

_Go away,_ he wants to shout, caught in a half-trance. _You can't have them._

But then he sees the beady bird eyes hiding within the fluttering shape, and his fear crawls up into his throat like a reaching hand.

With a jolt, he jerks upright, and Lotte murmurs in sleepy confusion.

Hannibal pauses too, expression clouding as he watches Will look frantically around the room, eyes wide, but all is still.

When he’s pushed the tide of his panic back and forcibly bottled it, Will turns to hush Lotte, soothing her back to sleep with a few gentle words; his hand stroking back her hair.

"I’m sorry, love, just had a bad dream. It’s all right, nothing can hurt you."

She stills, lashes soft fans against her cheeks, and the room is silent for a few long moments before Will carefully extricates himself from the bed, muscles tight.

He doesn’t look at Hannibal as he half-stumbles from the room, but he can feel him like a shadow, trailing him. Face burning, Will heads for his room, trying not to stare into the dark corners. He’d hoped not to be confronted, but a hand on his arm stalls him in his doorway.

"Will," Hannibal's voice is low but keen. "Will, what happened-?"

"Nothing! I - think I just dozed off, had a funny turn." The skeptical silence that follows makes his ears burn. He sighs, turning around to look at Hannibal, his expression seeking as he comes toward Will.

"I'm coming in with you," he murmurs.

"I'm not sure we should make a habit-"

"Why not?" Hannibal asks, eyes glowing with sincerity.

"Because if anyone sees us we'll be _arrested_."

"We're alone in your home, Will."

"No we're not," Will whispers.

"Just who is it who worries you, Will?" Hannibal asks smoothly.

"I imagine it's obvious," Will scoffs, but his voice quakes.

"Is it?"

Will shuts down at the push; the obstinance. Hannibal claims to care for them, but he'd put everything in danger like this.

"I think it's best we try to be discreet," he insists.

"I think it's best we're _together_ ," Hannibal retorts.

When Will steps back, Hannibal follows, and Will suddenly wants to snarl at him, the protectiveness warring with his desire to keep him close. He wants Lotte to be safe, more than anything. His half dreams feel like a warning.

"Hannibal, please."

"Let me help, Will."

Suddenly, Will is so transparently aware of how rare this chance is: he might never again be in the unique position of being understood, and loved regardless. No part of himself, or Lotte, hidden for the sake of someone else. Hannibal has never once seemed to find them strange, or unsavoury. He’s only tried his best to safeguard them.

He looks transparently disquieted by Will's plea now, waiting for his word. Will can’t bring himself to be selfless. Not yet.

"Come inside," he finally whispers, urgently.

With a quick check down the corridor, Hannibal does, but he doesn't advance as Will sits down on the bed, for which he’s unspeakably grateful.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs.

"It's all right, Will. Tell me what's troubling you."

"Nightmares, doubts, omens," he whispers. "Fear and death."

"Symptoms of your work, I'd wager."

"Perhaps," Will allows.

"You fear something more severe?"

"I fear everything that might touch Lotte," Will says. "Including what I said about - us."

"I know that, Will." He sighs. "And I respect that, of course. I just don't wish to see you forever denying your own happiness."

"As long as Lotte is happy -"

"Will," Hannibal says feelingly.

"What?" He feels defensiveness rising up in him.

"I want both of you to be happy."

"I've never been happy. That doesn't matter."

It's only the truth, but Hannibal looks troubled by the thought.

"It matters to me."

"Hannibal," Will pleads, "My work means something to me, helping people _means_ something to me-"

"And Lotte?"

"What about Lotte?"

"I know she means something to you."

"Of course she does, she means _everything_ to me!"

"Your work is taking you from her in pieces."

"I'm unwell, I simply have a headache, I'm tired - I'll be _fine_." Will sighs, squeezing the bridge of his nose above his spectacles.

"Will." Hannibal's voice is authoritative. He slowly opens his eyes. "You're not well, and it's not just a headache, is it? Before when you came to, you seemed frightened, disoriented - but your eyes had been open the whole time."

"Are you diagnosing me, Doctor?"

"I am concerned about your health." His face is open and guileless.

"I'm fine," Will repeats weakly.

"As you say."

"What do you suggest I do? I have to keep a job."

"There are other jobs you might hold," Hannibal says serenely.

Will scoffs at that. "Precious few, Hannibal. You are - overstepping."

That seems to displease him immensely. Still, Will cannot deny the truth he feels, nor withhold the words.

"Will..." his voice is soft. Will can't help but soften with it. "I worry about you," Hannibal whispers. "So does Lotte, every day when you're gone."

That needles Will in places filled with nerves. He sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"She'd miss me at any job."

"She's smarter than that, Will."

Frustration strikes Will and he bites his tongue. He can't argue. "I need to think," he says, quietly.

"As you wish," Hannibal repeats, but he doesn't move from his seat. "Do you want me to leave?"

Will doesn't want that at all. He feels his own movements growing agitated, not sure how to ask for comfort – usually, with Hannibal, he doesn’t have to. Maybe he’s not sure how to comfort Will like this, either.

He feels his eyes starting to sting and looks away quickly, feeling helpless.

"Will..." Hannibal says it very softly.

Will breathes in, then out again. "Come here?"

Hannibal shifts closer, carrying himself carefully. When they're perched together on the bed, Hannibal puts one warm hand on Will's knee.

"Better?" he murmurs.

"I feel - like I can be asleep or awake at any time," Will admits quietly, "and I'm not sure which it is until it's - until I start to dream."

Hannibal hums. "I can see that that would be distressing."

Will tries to gauge a reaction: he'd been expecting more than platitudes. He hasn't exactly been forthcoming with details, or requests for help, but Hannibal has known from the off that something wasn't right. Maybe he’s too polite to pry, but that doesn’t seem right: he's been vocal about it so far. Will doesn't know what's changed.

"Hannibal," he sighs. "I don't know what's happening to me."

"I believe," Hannibal says, somewhat carefully, "it might be wise to take a leave from work, to rest - see if that remedies it. Just for a few days."

Will bites his lip. "Perhaps -"

"No consulting from home."

"Jack won't like it."

"Jack cannot begrudge you time for an illness."

Will laughs. "Can't he?"

"He shouldn't."

"It's a nice thought."

"You need to do this, Will," Hannibal presses, his low voice even and reasonable but with a note of pleading. "You must do everything in your power not to orphan your daughter to madness."

Will freezes. His heart hammers. "You think I -"

"I think you are put under a very unique kind of strain, and it's making you ill," Hannibal says gently. "What do indistinguishable waking dreams suggest to you? A fever, certainly, but what if it's more than that?"

"What more could it be?"

"At this point, I wouldn't like to say. But you need rest."

Will takes it in, thoughts frantically racing, millions of unaskable and unanswerable questions. His mind is all he has, he can't let it betray him.

"I'll call Jack first thing," he murmurs, and feels Hannibal’s approving nod.

"Shall I let you rest?"

"I don't want to be alone," Will confesses.

"I don't want to leave," Hannibal replies.

"Stay with me?"

Serenely gracious, Hannibal just nods, fingers going to his waistcoat buttons, the prim set to his shoulders and chin returning now the tension has passed. Watching him, Will feels affection growing behind his fear. Everything he does is just so… perfect. So gentle; refined. Practiced, clearly. But genuinely caring, and... beautiful.

Will touches his cheek before he can stop himself. He’s not sure when he stopped thinking of what Hannibal does and instead started to think of all he is.

"Oh Hannibal..."

His keen maroon gaze fixes on Will's, expression indecipherable. Will bites his lip; watches him tip his cheek into the touch with a hum. He's so lovely, as demure as a housecat, hiding his teeth.

Slowly, Will skims the hand down to start to undo Hannibal's necktie carefully. "Let's get some sleep."

He's allowed to undress Hannibal down to the skin. It makes him breathless and hesitant again for a minute until Hannibal pulls him into bed like it's always been this way. It makes Will's heart feel clenching and numb.

Hannibal snuffs the lamp on the bedside and slides against Will in the dark, gathering him close, cupping the base of his skull with one warm hand, humming when Will gasps softly.

"Sleep," Hannibal whispers, "I won't let you have nightmares."

Will nods in reply. He feels Hannibal's warm body against his own; feels his fingers soothing against his scalp, and his eyes start to heavy.

*

He sleeps like a statue, he can tell from the pins and needles in his limbs when he wakes, still dead tired, but roused by something is shrilly piercing the air - the phone, he realises, scrambling for his glasses on the bedside. He pulls on a robe and goes out to the landing, pulling the door shut behind him just in time before Missus Cheswick appears. He holds up a gentling hand to her and picks up the phone.

"Graham," he rasps.

"We have another body," Jack bellows in his ear. "I need you."

Will winces at the volume. "What time is it-?"

"Half three? Why?"

Will sighs, all thoughts of resting gone. "Where shall I meet you?"

"Spitalfields, by Christ Church."

"Fine." Will hangs up the phone and presses his forehead to the cool metal for a moment, then he turns to Lotte's room down the hall; checks to see if she's been disturbed.

"You get yourself back to bed," he tells Missus Cheswick. "I'll call my own cab."

"Thank you, Mister Graham."

He slips back into his room to dress. He can see that Hannibal is awake, but he doesn't speak, just watching Will in the dark.

"I'm sorry," Will whispers.

"He puts you in a position where you cannot deny his dead," Hannibal shrugs faintly, "how could you?"

"He needs me to see them."

"So that you cannot forget them."

"They deserve to be remembered."

"Even if remembering them costs the rememberée everything?"

Will just shakes his head. Not a denial, exactly. Dressed, he goes to perch on the edge of the bed, where Hannibal tries in vain to tame his curls with gentle fingers.

"Just tell me you'll be careful."

"Of course, I always am." He doesn't resist when Hannibal presses close to kiss him. Instead, he opens for it. It feels like a plea and a promise all at once, one he's all too willing to make.

When they part, Will stands, breathing hard. At least it's not fear this time.

"Tell Lotte I'll be back for dinner?"

"If you're sure you will?"

"I will." He leans down for one more kiss.

Hannibal's touch lingers on his jaw as, downstairs, he brushes his teeth, helps himself to his coat and hat, and takes his leave; plunges into the darkness of the city and to whatever awaits him.

By the time he arrives at the church exterior, he's already developing a headache. The few street lights that have been lit as a precaution against the mist around the crime scene cast greasy light onto the rain-slicked cobbles, and Will sees the shadows oozing for a moment before he manages to shake the thought off.

Torches slice straight, fat beams along the face of the church, making ghosts on the windows. There is a general carry-on of shouting and scurrying police action as they work to barricade the area off from curious bystanders who have come to see what the fuss is about. Will observes the disturbance, picking out a couple of police wagons in the dark. Wonderful - a circus. With a sigh, he starts toward the solemn gathering.

Cigar smoke catching on the wind and his hat making him a head taller than anyone else, Jack's figure is easy to pick out.

Apparently, so is Will’s.

"Will! About damn time. Get over here. Have you eaten?"

"It's four in the morning," Will grumbles. "I was sleeping."

"That a no? Good. Come on."

Will thinks a few creative curses to himself as they duck into the cordoned off church, bypassing the cluster of police there. Will can smell it before he sees it, blood and incense, and he stalls in the aisle like a fractious horse, before he can see clearly. He doesn't want to.

From behind, the person - the _body_ \- simply kneels in a pew, clad in some sort of robe. That part looks serene, quiet. The hands are raised in prayer - bound at the wrists. But there's something wrong; a disproportionate sort of slump.

"You have to come around to the front," Jack says sourly.

Will doesn't move for a moment, until an impatient huff makes him square his shoulders and makes his way through to Jack's side.

"No head," he says, faintly.

The blood vessels of the neck, he sees, have been excised and left relatively intact, but for having been tied into a fanciful sort of bow. There's very little actual blood, but Will can see even in the shape of a well-covered torso that the stomach is distended.

"Exsanguinated," Will murmurs. "Off site. Hung like the others, I expect."

"That's what we thought. Probably hung upside down, as if in a meat locker."

A meat locker. Will peers, and sees empty shoes by the body. Though the hands have been left this time, the fall of the victim’s dress fabric shows evidence of two bloody stumps below the knees.

"Like Jameson," says Doctor Beverly Katz, peering closely, "legs amputated. More blood on the bodice suggests more _choice cuts_ , too."

"Choice cuts," Will echoes quietly, ignoring the looks it gets him.

"What's with the bow?" Price, the medical examiner, asks from his crouch next to the body.

"I'm not sure."

Will can feel, as if from a distance, that his body is still working, but his mind feels encased in cotton batting.

"You're not sure," Jack repeats, displeased.

"I'm not sure!" Will repeats. "God, do you think I’ve got a crystal ball?"

A warning glance tells him the tone is wrong, and he winces.

"That’s enough. Deal with this. You have ten minutes."

"Wait," Will sighs, watching his employer stall. "There will be birds in her. I need to cut them out."

"You can’t be serious."

"They’ll die," Will says helplessly.

With a sigh, Jack hands over a folding knife.

"We got all the photos we need already," he tells Will, and then he clears the church with a booming command, leaving Will alone with the body; alone with the silence. He takes a deep breath again, shaking his head to clear it, and closes his eyes.

"Off with her head," he whispers. "She stuck her neck out, and lost it."

The bow, the bow, what is it about the bow. It's on the tip of his tongue.

"A butcher's knot," he whispers. The air seems to grow wings, moving around him, ruffling his hair, making him hold on to his hat. He has the sense of scores of birds, flocking from a storm.

"He butchered you with your own knives," Will whispers. "Like a pig. Repurposed you. Showed everyone what you were."

He moves forward, and with a grimace, pushes the corpse back against the pew and examines the headless female. Sure enough, the front of the dress is cut open, and the long incision beneath bears stitches. Swallowing down his revulsion, Will takes the knife and slits open the stitches.

The two birds within are wet, and half-suffocated, not bursting out like the others have. Will reaches in and gently lifts each out, holding them both in one hand. The surreality of it hasn’t quite set in, and he sits back against the pew and carefully wipes them both with his pocket square, watching as they start to become more alert. Blackbirds, he thinks, one male, one female. Different than the other murders again, but with enough similarities for him to _know_.

In a burst of movement, the blackbirds take flight, one and then the other. They disappear up into the eaves of the church, their song echoing off the high ceilings and pillars. Will cranes his neck to watch them, the dead woman before him nearly forgotten, now.

Something familiar, echoing about it all. He shakes his head, hard, as if to knock it loose. Hannibal's voice creeps into the back of his mind. _Do not orphan your daughter to madness._

This woman was orphaned to madness. No one ever taught her any manners, no one taught her the value of what she had, and what she deserved. She nearly smothered two other lives with her selfishness.

Something niggles in the back of his mind, scratching like a dirty fingernail, making it sore. He takes his glasses off with shaking hands. It makes his heart beat faster. He can hear the sound of wings, and from the winding stone columns, he thinks he sees the shadow of fluttering, silhouetted by the moonlight through the stained glass.

From above, a single black feather drifts down before his eyes, and he catches it in a gloved hand, turning it this way and that. It gleams glossy petrol in the dim light.

"I don't want to do this," he says quietly, to the room at large. "I can't. I can't do this."

But he's here, and he's looking, and his mind is bringing the headless woman in the pew to life.

"You're a bad father," she hisses at him from the stump of her neck. He takes a deep breath, pushing that aside.

"Such uncaring cuts," he murmurs to her. "No consideration for your flavour, your fear. No one is going to miss you." Another voice in him then, one that is and isn’t his own, all in one breath. "I'll make sure of it."

He sees it. Sees the chopping block, the discards in a dull pewter tub. Not just the head. Innards. Organs. "Offal," he murmurs, "unusable. You're a bad ingredient..." He's so close. He can feel it humming around him. "I give you one last chance, one last gift: the opportunity to pray for forgiveness. Two birds inside you, a sacrifice, or an opportunity for redemption."

And it is a gift. It hasn't been given for this unfortunate, no, but rather on behalf of - someone else. Will takes another shaking breath, hearing approaching footsteps.

He turns on his heel. "I'm done, Jack."

"What did you see?"

"This was his idea of mercy," Will growls softly. "Absolution for the unworthy, and... love for… someone else. This is a killer who would have done a lot worse to her, if he didn’t think it would compromise him in some way."

"Love?" Jack repeats, distaste seeping through every inch of it. "Wait - he thinks he might have slipped up?"

"Love," Will repeats, turning his face away. "He doesn’t slip up, but there’s something here, some intimate knowledge, something that would make the motive for this crime obvious with the victim’s head found. This is – by my understanding – a different kind of kill, than the perpetrator is used to committing. It lacks the self-restraint we’ve seen in the others – he went overboard with her. Couldn’t help himself. Clean job though, I doubt we’re looking at anything we’ve seen before."

"Saints," Jack murmurs, almost to himself. "You think it’s our new Ripper then."

"I do. Unmistakably the same signature." He lets that simmer for a moment, and then clears his throat. "I have to tell you something."

"Well?" Jack prompts irritably after a pause.

Will acknowledges his own fear, and swallows it.

"I need... to take a leave."

"This is not the time for a leave, Will."

"Maybe not, but I need one all the same."

"And I need to solve these murders!"

"And I need to safeguard my damn _mind!_ " Will snaps, and Jack's face freezes into a mask of fury. Will presses on, voice taking on a note of pleading. "This isn't good for me. It isn't good for my family."

That seems to strike an unexpected chord.

"Will..." Jack heaves a sigh.

"Please," Will breathes.

There's a long, hard silence, and then Jack shakes his head. "Take a week. Get your head together."

Will bites back a laugh. A week, truly.

"Fine," he says. "I'll write up a report for you before I go."

"Fine," Jack echoes, "fine. I’ll have Zeller bring you the photographs by noon."

He waves Will away and Will doesn't hesitate to go. To Scotland Yard, to tie up loose ends with his open cases where he can. At least he can borrow an office with a door that closes.

He's still there when the sky is pink tinged on the horizon, hacking away on a haggard and recalcitrant type-writer. He considers it fitting penance. _For what, doing what's best for me and my family?_ He asks himself wryly. It takes him a moment to acknowledge that Hannibal is included in that fragile little word. It surprises him, but he is, and it makes Will's chest feel warm to think it.

He'd felt like family this morning when he'd kissed Will goodbye. He has always cringed at anyone who's suggested he look for a wife, but no such cringe when Hannibal had ceremoniously taken him into his bed; into his body. It makes him bloom with heat just to think of it, but just as quickly a photograph from his file chases it away again.

Heart pounding, he lays a hand against his chest; touches a finger to the corner of the photo of Edith Jameson, dead with her guts spilled and her limbs cut off like a carcass about to be jointed. Butchered. And disemboweled. A feast, on a table, filled up with potential...

The first two victims, organs missing but no limbs. Live birds. Now, the woman in the church. Two birds, no head. Jointing, too. Meat for the table.

Will doesn't even know what he's thinking. He doesn't want to think about it for a moment longer, though. It lingers only long enough for him to start rifling through the desk drawers for correctional fluid in a panic when he realises he has typed out some of his more grotesque thoughts in with the line of the report. No, no, no, this cannot stand.

A flutter of movement in the corridor derails his thoughts, and his hand keeps searching for the fluid even as he blinks rapidly at the knock on his door.

"Uh - come, come in."

He nearly falls out of his chair when he sees Lotte.

"Titch, what are you doing here-?"

Then he sees Hannibal behind her, and smells fresh-baked bread. For a brief moment, he's relieved that they’re _real_. Lotte is smiling at him, her hair unusually tamed by a pretty French braid.

"We brought you breakfast."

"Late breakfast," Hannibal amends.

"I - I'm almost done, I'm just typing up some reports. You shouldn't be here, you two..."

"It's only an office building, Will," Hannibal murmurs. Will doesn't argue, because Hannibal knows it's more than that. It's the home of Will's daily dread. But it keeps things light for his little girl, who is excitedly pulling two chairs up to the desk.

"Father, I helped make it."

"That's wonderful," he murmurs.

"Let me get you some then," Hannibal puts in. He serves Will a large slice of currant-studded pastry from the hamper he’s brought with crockery, and silverware, and even napkins, from home.

"It looks like a dessert," Will says, smiling, "European this one, I suspect."

Lotte giggles.

"I like dessert for breakfast."

"You would, sweet thing." He tugs her over to sit on his knee, after he's pulled the paper from his typewriter. "What have you done this morning? Surely some schoolwork?"

"Yes, we did biology and natural history, and then we hit a tangent about collective nouns and the etymology behind some of them - a group of ravens is called an 'unkindness', isn't that strange, Father?"

That throws him for a moment, and he studies her, trying to parse his feeling of unease. The dark feather is still tucked in his pocket, he thinks.

"Father?"

"Sorry, Titch." He recovers himself a little. "An unkindness of ravens, a murder of crows - strange indeed."

It must be a lacklustre response, because Lotte gives him a funny little smile. She puts on his spectacles promptly. "Are you very tired, Papa? Will you be finished soon?"

"I am very tired," he admits. "And I am finished now. I’m just waiting for my photos."

"I think you need a nap," Lotte tells him sagely.

Will feels himself flushing at the thought of his bed. And its most recent occupant. "I think you might be right, sweet."

"Good. You can take one when I take mine." Then she lights up excitedly. "Doctor Lecter can nap too."

Will can't bring himself to look up. "If he likes, darling."

She beams softly. "Keep eating, Papa."

"I am, I am. Don’t be bossy, you."

While she giggles and eats her own pastry, he finally glances at Hannibal across the desk, pertly picking at his own serving with a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth.

"It's delicious, thank you."

"My pleasure, Will." He gives him a soft smile. "I didn't know what time you'd be back, and didn't want you to go without."

"That's a kind thought."

"More selfish, truly. It seemed preferable to breakfast without you."

The simple romance of the gesture makes him hold his breath. He has to look at Lotte again so that he doesn’t simper; ask about the book she has tucked under her arm, digging in Will’s ribs. He listens attentively as she happily summarises what she read in the cab on the way over, getting the glaze from the pastry on her chin and nose in her enthusiasm.

Cleaning her up with his napkin, Will notices his shoulders have loosened noticeably, no more shadows in the corners of his vision. He strokes Lotte's hair absently, the sable curls at the end of the braid coiling around his fingers and bouncing back. Maybe it really is work that’s doing this to him...

When they're finished breakfast, Will folds their napkins together carefully and tucks them around the plates before putting them back in the hamper with the remainder of the wax-paper wrapped loaf. Lotte is on crumb duty, and she seriously checks all of their clothes – and in Will’s case, beard – for strays before she’s satisfied.

Finally, a knock sounds at the door, and Will gratefully accepts the photos from Zeller - though he has no need, or opportunity, to look at them now. Instead, he folds them and he last of his paperwork into the folder he’s been working from and labels it for Jack’s pigeonhole.

Picking up his overcoat, he looks between them both; "Thank you, shall we go?"

"Are you finished?"

"I am now."

"Come, then."

Will packs his briefcase with a few things, but leaves most outside Jack’s office, marked for his attention. Hopefully the insights there will be enough to keep him from phoning Will.

"Come along, loves," he murmurs, opening the door for Hannibal and Lotte. They're halfway to the street before he realises what he said, and that neither Hannibal nor Lotte batted a lash at it. His ears burn as he ushers them both into a carriage and he relishes the secret warmth of it.

When they’re settled, Lotte cuddles into his side, clearly over the moon that he's leaving work with them.

He holds her close, and presses a kiss into her hair. "I'm going to have a few days at home, with you."

"Father. I'm so happy. Will you take lessons with me?"

Will looks at Hannibal. "Well - I don't want you to be distracted, but I thought perhaps you could finish at lunch for a few days and we could spend the afternoons together."

She nods enthusiastically. "You can take me and Doctor Lecter to the park. Or fishing!"

"Fishing sounds nice. Maybe we could take a trip to the seaside." He glances up at Hannibal for his reaction, and he gives Will his soft not-smile, emanating warmth. Will has become so accustomed to that smile already.

He looks out of the window, a bit of the weight lifting off him. Overhead, he sees a cloud of flocking birds scatter, something that seems to occur so readily around him now, like he carries some warding scent. He watches them as they dip and swirl into the four points of the compass. And then, one by one, they start to fall.

He blinks, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment, turning his face away from the window. He knows when he looks back there will be nothing there.

"I think you might be right about that nap, Lotte," he tells her. She seems entirely delighted.


	14. Chapter 14

That’s how they spend the day together, reading, sleeping, Will resting. Lotte’s lessons seem to have been adjusted for his benefit to be held in the big sitting room, but strangely Lotte isn’t disturbed by it, making Will wonder if it was her idea all along.

He can’t complain, curled on the sofa with a book on his chest, fire crackling and the grey clouds outside softening the light as Hannibal and Lotte go over plosives in Latin grammar. Will hesitates to even contemplate feeling this content; even his head doesn't feel as swimmingly loose as usual.

He dozes on and off throughout the afternoon, only really stirring to sit up for the shockingly casual lunch Hannibal has prepared them – soup and warm, fresh rolls around the small sitting room table; chocolate cake on delicate plates with tiny forks. Will knows Hannibal is tested feeding a fussy child, but he can’t help but feel it’s geared toward him, too. Comfort food. Healing food.

The afternoon passes in the same dreamy haze, and they put Lotte to bed together after dinner, and even that seems a little more peaceful than usual. Missus Cheswick absents herself to bed early as well, complaining of her rheumatism. Kindly, she's stoked up a great fire in the hearth in Will's room, and he settles down in a chair in his robe, soaking up the warmth, reflecting on his good fortune.

While he's content to sip whiskey and watch the flames, he soon finds himself missing the company of his daughter's tutor.

Oh, Hannibal. Not only just that, not anymore.

As if summoned by thought alone, there's a soft patter of fingertips against his door.

"Enter," Will calls in a low voice.

"Care for company?"

"Hannibal. Yes," Will murmurs. He sighs when Hannibal comes to sit beside him. "Whiskey?"

"Please."

Will gets to his feet to pour Hannibal a glass, chinking them gently when they're settled again. The whiskey tastes smooth and peaty and brings a sense of warmth to his extremities after this many sips. With a hum, he leans into Hannibal more comfortably. It's a kind of pleasure he'd never known he was missing.

"I'm proud of you for talking to Jack like you did, Will."

Will laughs softly. "Me too. If it sticks."

"I'll make sure it does."

"Oh, will you?" It makes Will smile in gentle amusement. He thinks he's halfway to drunk.

"I will."

Heartened, Will lets his eyes drop to Hannibal's mouth.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you."

"You were simply yourself."

"In that case, praise your bad judgment."

Hannibal gently touches his hair. "My judgment is impeccable."

"Like the rest of you," Will murmurs fondly.

Hannibal looks immensely pleased.

"Don't think I haven't noticed," Will tells him.

"I'm delighted to hear it. I do so like to be looked at."

"I always do."

"Is that so?" He smiles truly now.

"Completely." He closes his eyes when Hannibal combs gentle fingers into his hair.

"Precious Will."

Will lets him, because it feels decadent yet necessary somehow. It's so foreign to be touched, at least by another adult, that is. He's a little embarrassed by how much he misses it.

If Hannibal can tell, he doesn’t comment, just leans to kiss Will soundly. There's nothing stopping him from enjoying it, the bite of his whiskey, the soft kisses, the warm fire. He curls his fingers into Hannibal's shirt with a sigh; kisses back with lazy determination.

"Hannibal," he whispers.

"Yes, darling."

"Will you stay?"

"I'd like nothing more."

"Me neither." Daringly, Will drapes himself over Hannibal's wide chest. He's rewarded with more long kisses, and arms around him. He feels Hannibal's hands find the small of his back, inside his robe, smoothing body-warm cotton. Hands clutching feebly without his conscious permission, Will bows into it, a soft noise escaping him when one hand travels lower instead.

He bows into that too.

Hannibal urges their hips flush until Will is riding his thigh, one slippery rock that seems to set them into motion. Will gasps; bites down gently on the plush softness of Hannibal's lip, and Hannibal moans softly as he feels the pinch. His hands skim round to undo Will's flies, and quick as a blink, he has Will in his warm, tunneled grip.

"Ha-" he cuts himself off, trying to stifle the noise.

Hannibal's free hand gently touches his throat.

"Shh, it's all right," he whispers, "I have you." His lips touch Will's brow. "Use my hand, my darling. Feel good."

"Hannibal," Will protests faintly.

"Move," Hannibal urges.

"I want it to be us," Will whispers.

Hannibal takes a breath Will can feel. "Tell me what you want?"

"I want _you_."

"You can have me."

"I want you to have me."

Hannibal laughs softly. "Then take me to bed, Will."

They seem to move all at once. Will's trousers gape, and he works his own pyjama shirt buttons and Hannibal's at the same time, both of them stumbling toward the bed. Bare chested, Will presses Hannibal down and kisses him as they rid themselves of the last vestiges of their clothes. There, they kiss, frantic and searching, until they're both hard and leaking against one another's stomachs. Moving together, slow rocks and slides of skin, warm and close.

Will still has the small jar of oil next to his bed, and he finally pushes back to grab it from the drawer, face already hot, hotter still when Hannibal reaches and takes it from him with a soft hum of praise.

"Lie down for me, beloved."

Will obliges, eyes dark and watchful. He touches Hannibal's hair as he trails down to kiss his belly, coating his fingers and then recapping the jar; setting it aside and stroking wet purposeful between Will's thighs.

"Yes?"

Will nods, licking over his bottom lip, and Hannibal pushes in, eliciting a bitten off cry of need. God, it feels so right. With Hannibal's other hand settled on his stomach, Will breathes through his nose, letting his thighs fall wider, higher. All the while Hannibal presses deeper; crooks his finger.

"So hot inside, Will," he whispers, "beautiful."

Each movement of his finger causes sparks up Will's spine. His hand too, slipping up his belly, stroking over his chest. He's finding soft and sensitive places everywhere he goes. Arching, Will reaches for his hair, jaw slacking helplessly.

"Kiss me," he breathes. He tugs and grasps as Hannibal gracefully slides up, keeping his finger moving all the while, coating Will with slick as he slants their open mouths together.

_"Hannibal,"_ Will gasps, clutching at him, "oh-"

"I know," Hannibal murmurs.

"More," Will begs softly, "please, please..." He moves his own hips, increasing the pressure of Hannibal's hand.

"Oh, Will," Hannibal sighs, kissing him soundly. "Will, I have more for you, only one moment -"

"Now. Please. Please, Hannibal." His voice cracks, and Hannibal relents, withdrawing to reach for more oil.

He kisses him again as he settles between his knees proper, slicking himself now, taking his time about it. Will can hear his own noises but he can't stop them, faint and low and pleading. He fancies Hannibal's eyes glow brighter with each one, until he dutifully hushes Will with another long kiss, and settles down against him, lining up, guiding, and starting to press.

It's slow, and shockingly intimate. Will hisses out a breath as he bears up, past the initial overwhelm, into something new; something hot and draggingly good. With a whimper, he pushes his face into Hannibal's shoulder and bites down to stifle himself, and Hannibal hisses, but he doesn't pull away.

Instead, he just holds Will in both arms, braced on his elbows, and starts to fuck him as Will clings tightly. It's slow, purposeful, entirely overcoming. Hannibal does this as perfectly as he does anything, hitching Will’s knees high over his shoulders and compressing him down against the mattress, letting him tether him close with his heels nudging locked against his shoulders.

Wrapping his arms tight around his back, Will tips his head back into the rumpled sheets and listens to the slick clap and kiss of their flesh. "Oh, _fuck._ "

"You feel divine," Hannibal murmurs. He kisses a few more soft noises from Will's lips. "Hush, love."

"Can't help it," Will whispers. "Fuck, Hannibal, you -"

"Shh," Hannibal whispers again, but he's smiling, stroking harder with his hips and smothering Will's mouth with his palm when he chokes on a cry. He kisses Will's cheeks above his hand, then the back of his hand in a mime of their own kisses, surging faster.

Will takes advantage of the muffling palm to groan again. With Hannibal containing him, holding him, he's free to _feel_ him entirely. And there's just so much to feel; so much love.

There's only one other person he's been able to feel that much love from, and she'll probably grow out of it. He realises it would be normal for her to. But he won't, and that - could be lonely. It's hard to feel the loneliness like this, though.

He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches Hannibal tighter, until Hannibal replaces his hand with his lips. His fingers slip into Will's hair instead, stroking gently, and he flexes his hips in a gentle, insistent rhythm, stoking a deep fire in him, building and building. It steals Will’s breath away, making him arch and rock and whisper his pleas. He’s so far inside him.

Hannibal catches them with his mouth and soothes him with his own.

"Hannibal," Will whispers against his cheek, "you're _perfect_."

"We are," Hannibal murmurs. "We're perfect together, Will."

Will nods, curls tumbling. He thinks it is the togetherness that feels so good. He can barely tell where they entwine and penetrate and cradle. They're one pulsing heart, all nerves and heat. 

Soon, Hannibal presses a hand down between them to curl around his cock. It's a sharper sensation now. Louder and hotter. Will has to bite his own lips to stifle himself now, feeling all the tension pulling inward; an elastic sort of pleasure. He knows when it breaks, he'll be insensible with it. He's already getting there, so full it aches, like his thoughts themselves are squeezing out of his head. There's no room for anything but Hannibal.

His hips shake, pushing into Hannibal's grip, cock twitching and dribbling fluid as he edges closer.

"That's it, Will," he whispers.

Will whines, nails carving crescents into Hannibal's neck, his feet arching. He can’t speak, can’t make noise, can only bridge toward that white hot need that strains just out of reach.

"Yes, yes," Hannibal hisses it softly, "show me, perfect boy."

He coos when Will gasps his name, hips jerking. It's coming, growing in him. Bigger than his body, bigger than them both. Swallowing up the entire house. The city. The sky.

Will snaps his head back into the sheets with a gasp and comes so hard he’s nearly blind with it. It feels endless, deafening, Hannibal’s warm artist’s hand ribboned with long floods of his pleasure.

Hannibal still moving in him tangles a moan in his throat, but he just shushes Will again softly, touching his hair with both hands now, looking into his eyes as he moves into the clench of Will's body. Each stroke now feels like an offering. Will's or Hannibal's, he isn't sure. He stares up into golden-red eyes and lets himself feel, and Hannibal dips to kiss him with a long sigh.

It feels like a claiming. He's still moving slow and deep, like he's in no rush at all even though Will is still clinging to him, drowning in sensation.

"Hannibal," he pleads quietly.

"Beloved, can you wait for me?"

"Yes, of course."

"Good," Hannibal whispers. "My love."

He moves with more intent now, and Will lets himself fall into it as into a deep pool. It's overwhelming, too much, but it feels as real as the knowledge that Hannibal will catch him. He's holding him so tightly now, movements starting to grow snatched. Their lips meet and hold.

When Hannibal comes, it's with a soft cry, like he can't believe how good he feels. Even with the noise muffled by Will's mouth, he wants to hear it every day for the rest of his life. He whispers Hannibal's name in reply; strokes his hair and shivers when Hannibal turns and kisses his palm with naked adoration.

It's all over his face, too.

"I want this, always," Will says quickly, voice tight.

"Will," Hannibal breathes. It's hard work not to let the doubt boil up, but Will presses on.

"I know you wouldn't be doing this if it was some fleeting thing. I know you want to stay with us."

"There is nothing I want more," Hannibal murmurs.

"I want it too. I want to be a family." He hears Hannibal take a breath, then he's being kissed again. It's entirely encompassing. "Be my family," he repeats softly.

"Always, no matter what."

It's the most love he's felt from anyone in his whole life. Apart from his daughter.

"No matter what," he whispers. He pulls Hannibal down on top of him, holding him tight. He feels heavy, and warm, and content. Like he wants to stay here forever. Maybe he can.

Not while his housekeeper lives in, he thinks sourly, sighing: that gives him some pause. But Hannibal is molding him into a more comfortable sleeping position after gently cleaning them both up, stroking his hair slow, and he can't help but drift into sleep, pinned in the warm satisfaction by the gentle weight of Hannibal’s body.

Even his odd fever dreams don't seem so menacing; Hannibal soothes him whenever he stirs, and keeps him in his arms until morning.

*

When Will wakes the next morning, Hannibal kisses him softly and tells him to stay in bed until breakfast is ready.

"I want to go wake Lotte up," Will croaks, "I never get to see her first thing."

"Very well, Will, I will go downstairs and tell Missus Cheswick."

"Thank you," Will whispers. He pushes himself out of bed, swaying slightly as he reaches for his dressing gown and pyjamas. He's sore, he realises with a blush.

Hannibal watches him dress intently. It should be embarrassing, but Will still feels suffused with that overwhelming love.

"I'm all right," he tells him gratefully.

"You're perfect," Hannibal corrects him, voice soft. He crosses the room; takes his face in his hands. Will can't bring himself to shy away. He doesn't want to. Hannibal kisses him soft and commanding. "Go, Will."

He goes, cheeks flushed, letting himself silently into Lotte's room down the hall. The light in the soft blue space is cool, but her shoulder is warm when Will touches it gently.

"Sweetheart," he whispers. She's as light a sleeper as him, and her eyes open instantly.

"Father," she sighs. "Good morning."

"Morning, love. Hannibal is making breakfast."

"Breakfast?" she repeats softly. "For all three of us?"

"Of course." Will smiles. "Like every other day."

"And every other day, from now on," she replies.

"Well," Will reasons, "it's a lot of work if he's to be your governor also. I'm sure we'll be able to replace Cook eventually."

"His food is better," Lotte whispers.

"Yes, but he deserves not to have to look after us from six in the morning until eight at night, love." He perched on the edge of the bed to stroke her hair. Longer than eight at night, he thinks to himself, a wave of guilt hitting him. He owes Hannibal an apology.

A faint trickle of panic at the idea he's being selfish. It's just felt - so, so good, to be cared for.

Lotte is watching him. "Father," she says softly. "Is the doctor helping you feel better?"

"That's why I'm taking a few days off," Will side-steps.

"I know. We talked about it," she says seriously.

Will smiles. "I know you know."

"I mean Doctor Lecter and I," she tells him.

"Oh? Have you been conspiring?"

"Yes, Father, a bit."

He sighs, curling an arm around her. "Going to tell me what about?"

"Well. I came to your room the other night," she whispers.

The feeling that hits Will is tantamount to a freight train, cold dread and fear. He fights to keep his breathing calm, and his face open. "Oh."

"Don't be angry, Father."

"No, no, I'm not angry, darling, I would never be angry with you."

"Don't be angry with Hannibal, Father."

He sighs quietly. _Hannibal_ , is it? Not _Doctor Lecter_ anymore.

"I'm not _angry_ , Lotte. When am I ever angry?"

"Don't be sad, either. I love him, Father," she whispers. "I think you love him too."

That makes him choke on his panic. His eyes start to sting.

"Sweet girl," he whispers. She looks up at him hopefully, and he has to take her into his arms.

"You mustn't tell anyone, Lotte," he tells her, soft but urgent. "If anyone found out about Hannibal and I - it would be very dangerous for us, understand?"

"That's not fair, Father."

"I know it, but I cannot stress enough how big of a secret it is. Is that all right?"

Her eyes go big but she nods.

"No telling Marshall. Not Alana. Not Missus Cheswick, Lotte. No one." He tucks her head under his chin and breathes.

"Are you doing something bad-?" She asks, quietly.

Will can't hold back a wounded little sound. "No, sweetheart, but some people might think we are."

"I don't care about other people," she says earnestly.

"Neither do I, Titch." At least not enough to stop. Though part of him wonders just how selfish he could be, to put them all in danger like this. Jack thinks he's selfish. Just for taking time off work.

He swallows heavily at the thought, rocking Lotte gently for a minute more. All the while, he's seized by the idea that he's doing the wrong thing. But his daughter is so happy.

But she won't be, he reasons, if he and Hannibal get arrested. Guilt, his old friend.

A knock on the door signals Missus Cheswick with hot water for Lotte.

"Come on," he whispers, "get dressed and washed for breakfast."

She nods. "Yes, Papa."

He meets her back on the landing when they're dressed. Smiling, he offers her his hand; bends to kiss her little pale fingers.

She's glowing the whole way downstairs, and so is Hannibal, resplendent in the dining room as ever.

It makes Will forget his concerns just by association. He has no idea when Hannibal found the time to look so completely dashing. He's fully dressed and impeccable while Will is still wiping sleep from his eyes.

Smiling at the thought, he guides Lotte to her seat, unable to look away from him.

As he pours Will a cup of coffee, Hannibal’s own smile is serenely pleased.

"Good morning, Will, Miss Lotte."

"Good morning," they both answer.

Will continues to watch Hannibal as he comes to sit down with them, contented warmth starting in his core like the interior of a tea kettle. Hannibal feeds them all, talks quietly to his daughter and eats his own breakfast.

Will just absorbs the novelty of knowing how fortunate he is, a smile touching the corner of his mouth.

When they’re finished, he opens the newspaper and peruses while Hannibal takes the dishes through to the kitchen.

"Mister Graham," Missus Cheswick interrupts gently, "a letter for you came with the post."

Will takes it, checks the postmark. France.

"Thank you. Could you take Lotte up to her room to clean up, Missus Cheswick?" he asks.

"Of course."

Will can hear Hannibal in the kitchen, but he turns his attention to the letter, slitting it open with his table knife and taking out the folded sheets. The contents hold him still and shocked for a moment.

It's from the Turnings, the family who last employed Edith Jameson - the character reference Will requested some weeks back. It's full of phrases like _strict routines_ and _discipline_ but at the end, the only thing Will can see is _struck our son with a switch_ and _unacceptable use of physical punishment_. His stomach is sinking as his mind races. He puts the letter down with enough force to knock his coffee cup, and he fumbles to catch it, cursing quietly under his breath.

"Will?" Hannibal calls from the doorway.

"Sorry - sorry, I've - made a mess, I'm sorry."

"It's no matter, Will, it will clean. Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm. No. It's Edith Jameson."

Hannibal sits beside him and reaches out a hand. "May I?"

Will passes it to him, and he's quiet for a moment. When he lowers it, he looks sombre.

"It was kind of them to write you such an honest response," he murmurs.

"Well, I asked for a character reference."

"Distressing to hear their reason for dismissing her."

"Yes, it is. God, Hannibal, imagine if I'd hired her."

"Yet in the end, it was I," Hannibal replies softly.

Will bites his lip, nodding gratefully. His attention returns to the letter, and he examines the contents once more. Thinks of the bird eggs lodged in Edith's belly.

"Her potential... cut off, in the end, before it could hatch here."

"Her potential to be what, Will?"

"To be a cage," he murmurs. "A trap. Like... the others." He jolts up.

"My warehouse victim worked at an orphanage." He glances at Hannibal, who is sitting attentively but silently. Will continues helplessly. "The male victim, we never got identification. I knew we wouldn't. Maybe I'm seeing patterns where there aren't patterns. But it _feels_ right. This killer isn't driven by bloodlust, not specifically. It's about recompense. Edith was different - she had her organs left in tact, limbs removed, but the bird eggs, the vertical incision, the placement of the bodies like they were displayed. This killer wants to publicly punish his victims."

"Punish them?" Hannibal repeats.

"For something they did," Will murmurs. He closes his eyes. "They worked with children. We know what happened with Edith Jameson. Somehow, the killer must have known too." He looks at the letter again. "She used a switch."

"She did," Hannibal murmurs.

"The Ripper used a switch on her," Will whispers. "He knew. How could he know?"

He bites his lip.

"Perhaps he made her... confess."

"But how did he _know_? He had to have some way of knowing these people..."

"I'm sure he did, Will."

It isn't immediately presenting itself to Will, though. He hates not knowing, even as much as he hates _seeing_.

"Will?" Hannibal says quietly. "Are you well? You shouldn't overexert yourself."

"I just need to think about this," Will murmurs. "I can _find_ him."

"I know you can."

Will looks up at Hannibal, who meets his eyes with bottomless warmth.

"I have to go and make a call to Jack. Excuse me, Hannibal."

"Of course, Will."

"Thank you for breakfast." Tucking the letter back into its envelope, Will climbs the stairs to the telephone, head spinning just by the time he reaches the top. It takes a while to connect to Jack on the phone, but for once he's actually in his office.

"What is it?" he says when he picks up his receiver. "You're meant to be on a leave of absence."

"It's the Ripper. I have something."

A beat of silence, and then Jack grunts. "Tell me."

"I've had a response from the employers our second female victim, Jameson. They released her from service because she beat their son with a switch. She was beaten with a switch. The first victim worked in an orphanage and the other sisters there said she was strict, and she had her hands cut off - perhaps this is about beating."

Jack makes a considering noise. "You think that the victims are being selected because of their actions toward children?" He sounds skeptical, and Will doesn't really blame him.

"I know it sounds tenuous, but I just have a - a feeling."

Jack sighs. They both know how Will's feelings work, after all. "I'll assign someone to research the matter."

"I just need the ID on the second victim," Will sighs. "Still nothing?"

Jack sighs again. "We'll go through the missing persons again, and concentrate on perpetrators of crimes involving children."

"Maybe we can cross reference with suspected abductions."

"All right," Jack says gruffly, and Will imagines him leaning back in his desk chair on the other end of the line. "This gives us something to work with. Thank you."

"It's the same killer," Will presses, "I'm sure it has something to do with children."

"All _right_ , Will. You know I take that seriously."

"Thank you," Will whispers. He hangs up the phone and lets himself lean against the wall for a moment.

Something doesn't feel right, here. He raises his chin, and at the top of the stairs, the bird man waits; flicking wings and trembling shadows. Will closes his eyes quickly, shaking his head. "You're not real," he mutters. "Leave me _alone_."

"Will?"

He looks down the stairs to Hannibal in the front hall. His heart pounds in his chest.

"Hannibal?"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes, just - just hanging up the phone, forgive me. Are you well?"

"Of course, Will. Can I bring you more coffee to your office?"

"Yes, if - if you don't mind."

"Not at all, Will." He smiles, and shaken, Will retreats into his office.


	15. Chapter 15

Despite his fraught breakfast, Will still finds it easier to settle at home than if he were at work, knowing Hannibal and Lotte are close. Nevertheless, the feeling of contentment wars with a deeper guilt. He ruminates on it all morning, agitatedly moving around his study while Hannibal and Lotte proceed with classes. He promised he wouldn't work, but there is plenty of personal paperwork and correspondence, including placing another ad for a cook, he supposes, after the last one yielded no desirable results. And he ought to write Alana.

He passes a few hours doing just that after lunch, the menial worries helping to distract him from the major. He pays bills, tidies his desk, and pretends to be a useless, decorative father for a while, amusing himself with thoughts of who he might have been, had his mind just been that little bit less unusually equipped.

And when Hannibal enters, he has a smile for him.

"Hello, Will. Post?" He picks up the pile delicately.

"Missus Cheswick forgot to give it to the postman earlier, it doesn't matter," Will says. "She's coming back from the market shortly, it can go tomorrow."

"I'll try to catch the evening round, or take it to the post box. I truly don't mind, Will."

"I know, but. Hannibal..." he bites his lip. "You do everything for me."

"I want to. You know that."

Another surge of guilt.

"Where's Lotte?"

"She asked to set the table for dinner, then she's going to have reading hour."

"Used to be what my dad asked me to do." Will thinks of her; the way she likes those precise tasks. Methodical, repetitive. His heart surges at the ways she's like him.

"She's a good girl. A hard worker."

"Is she happy?" Will asks. "Does she like the subjects you're working on at the minute?"

"I believe so, yes. She's very enthusiastic."

Will nods. He fidgets slightly. Like he can see his unrest, Hannibal steps closer, laying a hand gently on his brow.

"How are you feeling? A little warm."

"Fine, I suppose. Just realised the time, threw me a bit."

"In what way?"

"Lost track of time." Will rubs his neck. It's ticked over into late afternoon without him clocking it once. He's not sure he even remembers lunch. Did he eat? He looks around at the thought, paranoid. He's sure Hannibal brought in a tray...

The look Hannibal gives him is curiously concerned.

"It happens," Will says, unconvinced himself.

"Of course." Hannibal defers. "What's on your mind?"

"Hiring new staff," Will sighs. "I cannot possibly allow you to continue to work from dawn to dusk."

He's not sure, but he thinks Hannibal looks faintly affronted.

"It's not work if I'm with you," he supplies faintly.

"But - it is. And I only pay your salary for tutoring."

"I don't care about that."

"I do, Hannibal. I have the money."

"I dislike talking about money, Will, but I'm not precisely underpaid."

"The house -"

"What about it?"

"It's a big house. I have less staff than most."

"You have almost no staff, Will."

"I don't like strangers in the house," Will murmurs.

"I know. And that's why I don't need you to hire a cook." He steps closer. "If you had a smaller house, you could hire day help."

Will raises his head, surprised.

"A smaller house? Why should I want a smaller house?"

"Because I could keep it for you, without a housekeeper."

"I don't want you to keep it for me..."

"Why not? A cleaner during the day when Lotte and I do lessons, I cook at night..." Will frowns, but Hannibal adds, reasonably, "Perhaps we could look at somewhere outside London - it would be nice for Lotte to have a garden."

"Oh," Will breathes. "But, my work..."

"You'll need to make a choice, Will."

"Well, I have to earn _money_ ," Will protests faintly.

"You could write books," Hannibal suggests quietly, "though a property this size would certainly fetch enough for two in the country. You could rent one out."

"Books. Selling my house..." Will closes his eyes. He takes a few breaths. "You are being rather pointed about this suggestion in general, Doctor."

"Only because I think you've failed to consider anything at all."

That shocks him faintly. "What is it you think I should be considering?"

"How to live your fullest life, my dear."

Will sighs. "Hannibal..."

"Did I overstep?"

"I don't know why you're so convinced I'm miserable." Will attempts not to grind his teeth.

"You aren't? In this city, doing what you do?"

"I'm saving lives," Will repeats, faintly.

"At the risk of your own."

"It's just - a spell. I'll be fine."

"My skills are always at your disposal," Hannibal replies.

"Your skills are at Lotte's disposal," Will presses. "You're here for her, not for me. It's selfish for me to need you."

He waits for Hannibal to disagree. When he does, it's with his hands on Will's cheeks.

"Do you imagine it isn't a mutual need?" It makes him catch his breath. "I have enough space for both you and Lotte, Will. I meant what I said." He smiles knowingly, sadly. "But perhaps you're not sure if you have enough."

That makes Will flinch with hurt. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it's true. You've let me in, but only so far."

"Hannibal -" Will shakes his head; he fights to keep his voice steady. "That's not true. She's my world. You have my trust with my entire _world_."

Hannibal's eyes meet his, looking dark and full of stars. "In my world, you and she are one. I want you as well."

"What does your world look like?" Will asks absently.

"Are you asking me to tell you my dreams, Will?"

"I suppose I am."

He watches as Hannibal kneels down in front of him then, hands on his knees, eyes earnest. "You interpret people, Will. You intuit their designs. Can't you see mine?"

They are interrupted by the peal of the doorbell - the kitchen entrance. Hannibal rises, but Will does too.

"It's all right. Let me. I think it will be the butcher and I wanted to check he hasn't been over supplying - I'm sure that roast we prepared wasn't on the order last week."

"Will, it's absolutely not your -"

"It's all _right,_ Hannibal." He marches off before he can let himself admit he's running from the conversation.

He lets himself into the kitchen, towards the back entrance, ignoring the throbbing in his temples. It's hard to ignore the small mountain of a man waiting on the other side of the kitchen door in the rain, the sky overhead steely grey. Not Will's butcher.

"Good afternoon," Will greets, "how can I help you?"

The man, ruddy and rough, gives him an appraising look with small, watery eyes. "Came looking for me wife, di'nt I?"

"Your wife?" Will raises his eyebrows.

"Cooked for ye for years, di'nt her?"

Will's brows shoot up further. "Missus Henderson handed in her resignation some weeks ago, sir, I'm afraid I haven't seen her since."

"Well I ain't neither, and I figure one of us must know why."

"With respect, why haven't you come sooner?"

But he knows why, doesn't he. The money hasn't run out 'til now. A tick of irritation starts in Will's cheek.

"I haven't seen her, she didn't even have the decency to resign to me in person," he says, crisply.

"An' you a man t'talk about decent."

"I'm sorry I can't help you further," Will says. "Please don't presume to know me." But Will knows _him_ , doesn't he? Alcoholic complexion, a hairline knotted with scars. Bar fights nearly nightly, Will assumes. Getting home drunk and spoiling for more. Why would Cook want to leave, for that? "Perhaps she's acquired a position elsewhere, sir."

"Perhaps," Hannibal echoes from behind him.

Will glances at him, curiosity piqued by the tone. He closes his eyes for a moment. And then, when he opens them, he sees.

Meat they haven't ordered, the missing cook, a butcher's knot around the neck of a decapitated corpse. A swarm of dark birds in the shape of a man, making nests in the cages of bodies. 

"The way I see it," Mister Henderson says, "one of you knows what happened."

Will takes a breath, and opens the door wider. "Perhaps. Come in, Mister Henderson. Let me fetch you a drink."

"I can do that, Mister Graham," Hannibal murmurs.

"Thank you, Doctor Lecter." He needs the space that Hannibal stepping into the butler's pantry will afford him.

He closes the door behind Mister Henderson, the cold cut of a decision coming over him like a lapping wave, easy does it. "Sit down," he says softly. "She didn't leave much behind, but I had my housekeeper pack up what there was."

"Much obliged."

He's relaxing, deferential treatment from two higher-status men soothing him. Will watches him settle into the wooden chair by the fireplace, unable to take his eyes off him. With a glance toward the door and windows, he takes his pocket watch out; unlatches the chain and wraps it in his handkerchief.

"Mister Henderson," he murmurs, "I believe you've dropped a glove on the floor by your chair."

As soon as he leans forward, Will snaps into motion. He wraps the chain around the thick neck and pulls sharply. Snatched together, as tight as he can, enough to make it quick.

He scarcely struggles at first, as quick as Will is. But when he does, Will has leverage behind him, and his knuckles are bursting white with the force, his shirt tight against his biceps. There's enough noise that he's sure it will bring Hannibal out from the pantry. But there's no movement until Henderson stops twitching; until his hands stop desperately clawing.

Will can hardly hear anything but the ocean of blood in his ears. He can feel sweat cooling on his skin; damping his curls. In the corner of his vision, he sees the twilight shape from his dreams again, and he flinches from it instinctively. Jerkily, he snatches open the cabinet where he’s stashed his revolver, breath coming faster as he trains it on the intruder.

"Will?" The distant voice. It coalesces into the familiar figure of Hannibal, strong shoulders and trim waist, but Will keeps the muzzle steady.

"You did this to us," he breathes, softly.

He's curiously still for a moment, visibly assessing, and then he comes toward Will slowly. "Will?" he repeats in a soft voice. His voice sounds so far away. Will still hasn't let go of the watch chain. "What have I done?"

"The butcher's knot," he pants, feeling sweat cooling on his skin. "Offal and joints and offcuts. You're a butcher."

"Is that what I am? Why have you done this, Will?"

"You already brought death into my house." The shadows seem long, reaching for them. He swallows thickly at the thought. His heart feels too fierce to be contained in the fragile cage of his ribs. "So I did this. For you." He bares his teeth. Hannibal is very composed for someone facing a loaded pistol.

"And I did it for you."

"For me, or for _us_?" The thought of Lotte's little hand in Hannibal's makes a scream bubble in his throat. Tears start to turn the lights into diamonds; Hannibal's bright eyes. "I trusted you with her. She's my everything."

"I know that, and I cherish that trust, Will."

"No-" he brandishes the gun. "You _didn't_ -"

Hannibal flinches, delicately. "I did. I do. I cherish you both."

"How can you? When you put her in danger like this?"

"How _I_ put her -"

"What did you do with the rest of the cook? With her head?" Will asks, desperately. He needs to know it won’t be found.

Again, no answer, but Hannibal’s eyes dart to the cellar door, and Will understands: the great generator and it’s fire pit, where Lotte and Missus Cheswick do not go. Will makes a hysterical hoot of laughter that quickly turns back into despair.

"If you get caught, if _I_ get caught, you will be the one who has _orphaned her to madness_ , Hannibal." The double exposure of his vision is troubled; Hannibal's crimson flecked eyes and storm clouds; a conspiracy of ravens outside the window, tapping on the windows like rain.

 _A group of ravens is called an 'unkindness', isn't that strange, father_? Lotte's voice echoes.

"We will not be caught," Hannibal murmurs.

"I caught you," Will growls.

"You are an exception." He pauses, taking a careful step closer. "You are _exceptional_."

Will doesn't step back, but he pulls back the hammer on the pistol.

"You killed the others, too." It hits him like a bolt of lightning, the awful knowing, a dreadful certainty. "They offended you. They abused those too helpless to fight them, and you punished them, didn’t you?"

Silence, Hannibal unblinking, but not denying. Will doesn’t need him to confirm, it suddenly makes so much _sense_. The orphan’s steward, the governess, the man with no head. Tobias Budge, who had given Lotte nightmares. Missus Henderson, who had stood in the way of her education and called her _strange_.

The extra meat in their larder, and the cellar. _Choice cuts_.

"You’ve been feeding them to us," Will breathes. The wave of nausea that rises is tempered only by his righteousness; his grip on the gun. His finger pinches on the trigger, hands starting to shake. "You _fed_ them to us-!"

"And you enjoyed every bite."

Will grits his teeth, stomach turning. His hands start to shake more violently with the pressure between his shoulder blades; the pounding in his head. He blinks tears out of his eyes and steadies his aim.

"I rather think, Will, that I'd prefer the watch chain," Hannibal murmurs.

"I want you to leave," Will says quickly, with more nerve than he feels. The words hurt coming out. His hands shake. "You need to leave."

"Come with me," Hannibal replies softly.

" _No_." Will's finger won't squeeze, no matter how much he wills it. His vision blurs with tears again. He can feel them stinging his cheek. "Leave."

"Not without you," Hannibal whispers.

"Hannibal," Will hears his voice break like it's someone else's. He doesn't think he's ever really felt heartbreak before. Already, he knows he's too weak to kill him. He's not selfless enough - and if he kills him, he'll have to expose them all to investigation. Jack's scrutiny. And he can't.

"All along," Will breathes, "you planned for it to come to this."

"I came here to solve problems," Hannibal explains. "Some problems are easier than others, but I remedy them in ways I am equipped. Your daughter needed an education, and love, and I happily provide both. Your household was invaded by people who meant you harm, and I remedied this too. You were alone, and I appeared beside you. You were afraid, and I made you brave." He looks horribly proud, the shape of him jostling and erratic in Will's fevered eyes, as though he's cut from a cloth of swarming black birds. "I am devoted to you, entirely. Nothing will change it."

"You brought death into our home. How is that devotion?"

"Tobias Budge came to kill you."

"Can a murder really be justified if you enjoyed it?"

His eyes flick to the corpse of the cook's husband. "You tell me, Will. You alone, of anyone I've met, can see the beauty in its brutality."

"I can't," Will protests.

"No? Tell me what you see."

He steps forward again, and Will whimpers. "A rain of feathers, dark as night," he breathes. "Rivers of ruby warmth down the windows."

Hannibal steps closer. His hands find Will's shoulders; his hands. He lifts the gun away, and kisses the sweating palm that had cradled it.

Will barely fights. It's too much; his head pounds and he stiffly lets Hannibal check his temperature with a cool hand against his cheek. He feels dizzied; he couldn't fight him, he knows. So he needs to wait.

"Will," Hannibal says gently, voice still sounding like it echoes through a can on a string, "I'd like you to go and see to Lotte now, maybe get some rest. I'll take care of Mister Henderson."

"Missus Cheswick," Will whispers, "coming back from - the market, Hannibal -"

"Don't worry about that. Go to Lotte."

It's an order, albeit a soft one. Will sways unmoored for a moment. "H-"

"Go on, Will. Let me do this for you."

Will goes before any more words can tumble out of his mouth, numb with shock. He hears the kitchen door close behind him. When he staggers upstairs, he throws the handkerchief in the fire in the study, then walks stiffly to Lotte's room.

He has to wait outside a moment, listening for any signs of disturbance. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, his hands still shaking. With his wits just about returning to him, he takes a moment to take off his jacket and wipe the sweat from his face with it, leaving it on the hall table and taking a few calming breaths before he knocks on the door. 

"Titch?" 

"Come in, Father."

She's reading quietly on the window seat, but she comes to him without a word when he curls on her counterpane. "Hello, sweet girl."

"Father? You don't look well..."

"Come here," he whispers. She climbs up quickly. "Just lie with me," he sighs, knowing she'll understand.

She tucks her little arm over his side and huddles close. She smells of vanilla; of warmth and safety. She's the most precious thing in the world, and she's been living under the same roof as a murderer. He let her.

His temples throb viciously with headache. He's a murderer now, too. Not for her… for _him_. He swallows at the thought and curls his arms tight around her. _We need to leave._

He doesn't know that 'we' includes Hannibal, just yet.

"Lotte," he whispers, "what do you think about moving?"

"To where, Father?"

"The country, maybe."

"I think I'd like the country," she says slowly.

"Yeah? A little house with a yard," he muses, "maybe a dog." That, he knows, is sheer bribery.

Her eyes light up. "Really? Maybe some chickens too?"

"Chickens," he says weakly, knowing he'll never refuse her a thing. Not if he actually gets them out of this.

"Hannibal always says it's a shame we don't have a garden," she says wisely.

He can hear it in her voice when she says the name. She loves him. The thought brings tears to his eyes. "Lotte," he whispers.

She hums, her hand patting gently at his cheek. "Yes, Father?"

"You're the most precious thing in the world to me."

"I know." She smiles at him, not quite meeting his gaze. He strokes through her curls until she looks. He sees two futures in her gaze, his own ice blue looking back at him. The idyllic country scene, her hair in wild curls, her sunhat flying off in the wind, grass tickling her hands as she runs. And her alone in a house with whatever Hannibal is, Will carved to bone and buried in the woods.

He won't leave her - but he doesn't think Hannibal will let them go. What that means for them, he isn't sure. A swirl of wings, feathers raining soft on her head like snow. At the thought, he huddles her closer.

"Shall we go to the park?" Maybe that would give him some space to get away. He could go to Margot, ask for her to help. She would, after what he did for her. She'd understand.

"Are you sure you're well enough, Father?"

"I'm sure I'm well enough just for that."

She looks doubtful. "We should get Hannibal to take us."

"He's busy just now, Titch," Will murmurs.

"Oh." She frowns a bit at that. "With dinner preparation?"

Will manages not to laugh. Nothing about this is funny in the slightest. "Something to that end." He sighs and forces himself to stay. It makes his head swim.

"Father..." Lotte eyes him. "I think we should stay inside."

She sounds very adult. Will feels like a child, too.

"If you like, darling," he whispers. "Shall I read to you?"

"Yes please," she says pertly.

It's a decent compromise, he supposes. His blood runs alternately hot and cold as he thinks about Hannibal in the far reaches of his house. Again, he thinks that he should take Lotte and run. He should make her pack a suitcase and herd her out and hail a carriage. But she'd ask him why, and what would he say? He stares into the middle distance, swallowing.

Lotte slides off the windowseat and pads over to the desk for a book, and Will startles at the movement. He can feel himself ready to run, like a spooked deer.

"Father?"

Will forces himself to focus. "What did you choose, darling?"

Fairy tales, he can see. Not like her. He was expecting the life of Galileo or something like.

"Escapism?" he asks her, dazed. She holds the book out to him again, and when he opens it he sees that it's hand bound, hand drawn. He can't imagine where it came from. "What is this, Titch?"

"It was a present, Father. Doctor Lecter's childhood fairy tales. He had to write them out himself because there were no books. The last one is my favourite, read that one. It's called 'The Bird Princess'."

Will looks in the front cover as he stands, moving with her to perch more comfortably on the bed. It's a linen bound volume, not thick but luxurious nonetheless. On the front, there's a gold ink drawing of a bird in flight. Inside, the book is surely enough signed by Hannibal, though clearly many years previously. Will doesn't think Lotte should have been given such a thing, but he's sure attempting to return it would be futile. His eyes sting at the sight of it.

"I can read it," Lotte says slowly. "And we can rest after."

"No, no, let me read it to you."

She settles trustingly against his side. Clearing his throat, Will flicks to the story at the back of the book, and starts to read.

" _In a castle in the hills, where the mist trailed like pale fingers through the trees, the little Prince and Princess who lived there were happy,"_ he begins, eyes skimming the idyllic castle in the hills, depicted in perfect detail, down to the stones in the walls. " _It was a peaceful kingdom, and the children ran wild and free through the fields and the forests all day, the only danger that they would come home too late for supper_."

He flips a page, taking in great, towering black trees; two small figures at the mouth of the forest. " _But one day, the castle was laid to siege by a hoard of demons, with black eyes and sharp teeth and greedy, long fingers. They overthrew the king and queen, and the children had no choice but to flee deeper into the forest than they had ever gone before."_

 _The princess was frightened, and she stumbled often as the rocks bit into her small feet. The prince carried her as often as he could._ "

Against his arm, Lotte leans to look at the next illustration: the children in a clearing, looking upon a little, snow-covered house.

" _It was dark and cold, and they were afraid,"_ Will reads. _"They spent three long days walking, with the winter drawing in and the frost pinching at their fingers and toes. They barely slept, and finally they thought their torment was over when they came across an abandoned cottage. They built a fire to warm themselves, and the prince gathered what little food he could find."_ He turns the page, curling an arm around Lotte, kissing the crown of her head. _"But that night, the demons descended upon the cottage, and the prince and princess were captured._ "

Lotte curls closer, and Will squeezes her against his side soothingly. He finds it difficult, suddenly, to read the words. An awful knowing is unfurling in his chest as he sees the dark figures that creep on the little house, a scorpion ready to strike.

" _The demons_ ," he says in a low voice, " _were also hungry. They devoured what little food was in the cottage, and when there was no more food, still they craved meat. With the snow thick on the ground and a blizzard howling through the woods there was no hunting, and so they began to squeeze the children's arms, testing for the thickness of their flesh._ "

The illustration here fills Will with hollow; grabbing hands as the creatures wrench the Princess from her brother's arms. " _The prince fought with all his strength, but there was only one thing tender enough to satisfy._ " Lotte turns the page for him. He reads on. " _They dragged the princess from him, so weak with hunger was he, and their black eyes grew wide, and their teeth did gnash, and the shadows of them upon the wall were that of a nightmare. The Prince could not bring himself to close his eyes, and so he bore witness to their terrible feast. They ate the Princess up, every last morsel, and threw the bones out into the snow._ "

Will pauses for a breath, and feels Lotte do the same. Something in the power of these pages holds Will. It takes all his strength to turns the next, a sense of grief filling him as he looks upon the careful ink rendering of the bones half buried in a snow drift, the ribs caging a blackbird.

" _What the demons did not know was that the Princess and her brother had made a wish long ago to always be free, and where her heart had been a bird now nested. A bird that was now released to fly away._

_But it didn't stay away for long. The Prince was still confined to the cottage with the demons, for when their appetites next needed sating. Outside the cabin, the snowy branches began to crack._

_When the demons looked out of the windows the next day, they saw that thousands upon thousands of birds had gathered in the night. They had been summoned, and they were waiting._

_The Prince knew what he had to do. He stole away from his captives the first chance he got, bursting out into the snow, the demons haring after him like wolves on fawn. The demons found themselves beset by beaks and talons, and where their blood hit the snow it shined like a beacon, calling more and more birds from every tree. A plague of black feathers rained down, engulfing the demons and the Prince alike. Finally, from the storm of flake and feather, a single figure emerged victorious."_

_The Prince raised his arms: he knew that there was only one way to repay them. They circled, a whirling column above him, and finally descended to consume him in turn._ "

The rushing fall of birds almost feels real, their sharpness rendered so intricately on the page, the tiny, tear-stained face of the prince distorted amongst the blur of shapes. Will thinks that he looks a little like the demons now, elongated and shadowed. The little figure feels so familiar now. Even without closing his eyes, Will can see the boy in the snow, watching the birds pick at the carcasses of the men he killed. He can see how they might have flocked on him, bloody and weak. How transformative it would feel.

"This bit is my favourite," Lotte coaxes, and Will turns the final page.

" _When the hoard dispersed, only one blackbird was left alone, perched on a rock. It shook out its feathers and launched itself into the sky, wheeling past the smoking ruin of the castle and turning towards the sea._ "

In the image, not one blackbird but two, soaring amongst a forest of snow-capped trees. Will looks from the page to Lotte, but his mind is on Hannibal: he can see.

He has tears in his eyes. Every stroke of the pen, every painstakingly written word, he knows Hannibal wrote this for someone else. The sense of loss drips off the page like fresh ink. Will turns to the front inside cover, and sees the words, _for Mischa_.

"She was his sister," Lotte says quietly from her spot at his side. "She died."

He looks down at her, nodding solemnly.

"He made it for her," Lotte adds, "and now he wants me to have it. I think he misses her a lot."

Will thinks of the bottomless dark eyes of the man in the kitchen, the one who wants to take them away. He thinks of Mister Henderson, and butchery, and _for Mischa_. Something is turning in his mind.

"I see you," he mumbles.

"Father?"

He looks down at the very blue eyes turned up to his. "So you wouldn't mind moving?" he prevaricates.

"Not at all, Father. Not if you and Hannibal were with me."

"You wouldn't miss it here? What about Missus Cheswick? I don't think she'd be able to come with us."

He doesn't think she'd be _permitted_. He's suddenly very glad she's out - he thinks her presence would have been perceived a threat merely in terms of proximity.

"Maybe she could go stay with Marshall. She'd like that just as well."

"Poor Missus Cheswick."

"I know she cares for me, Father. But you're my family."

"I know." He touches the cover of the book again. He hugs it absently to his chest. Then he reaches out his other arm for Lotte. She huddles close with a sigh. "We'll wait together until we're called for dinner," he murmurs.

"I think you should nap," Lotte says wisely.

He's not sure he could. But - she usually does before dinner. Normalcy is key. "Let's both."

"Will you stay with me?"

"Of course," Will whispers. He strokes her hair gently. "I'll always stay with you."

In the end, he does think he's dozed off for a while when a noise rouses him. He instinctively clutches Lotte tighter, jerking up. Rain drums hard against the panes of her windows. More storms, he acknowledges dimly. And then, the sound of a knock on the door.

"Hannibal?" Will says roughly.

The door opens, and Hannibal is standing in the frame, silhouetted by the hall light spilling over his shoulders. He looks like something from Will's dreams. Will holds Lotte in his arms and simply stares. Not a hair out of place. Just an apron around his waist.

"May I come in?" he murmurs.

"Of course," Will breathes, checking Lotte is still asleep.

Hannibal comes toward him and Will's mouth goes dry. He sees his gaze flick over the book against Will's chest.

"She asked for this one," Will murmurs. Hannibal looks beautiful, he thinks. His face suffused with an emotion that Will thinks is pleasure. Silently, gracefully, he comes to sit beside Will, reaching out to stroke Lotte's hair gently.

"Where's-?"

"Jointed, the rest incinerated."

"And Missus Cheswick?"

"Back from the market. I informed her you were feeling unwell and I didn't want her to catch it. Possibly influenza. She's gone to stay with her family."

"Thank you," Will whispers.

Hannibal just smiles. He reaches out to touch a finger to the corner of the book. "You read the last one?"

"Yes, I did." He lays his hand out on his knee, and Hannibal's falls from the book to his seamlessly. Will looks up to his face. "How old was she?" he murmurs.

"Five." He says it quickly, and quietly.

"You'll tell me the story someday," he murmurs.

"Perhaps you'll tell it to me," Hannibal whispers back.

Their fingers zipper, faces close. Will feels dizzy; perched on a precipice. "I'll do my best."

"As will I."

"You always do."

"You deserve nothing less."

Will can feel the breath from the words on his lips.

"I deserve you?" He can't help the note of steel that creeps into that question.

"Undoubtedly you do."

"And you deserve me?"

"I endeavour to, daily."

Thunder rolls outside the house and Lotte stirs in Will's arms. Will's eyes are prickling. "I want to leave," he whispers. He knows it now - they aren't going anywhere without Hannibal. They can't get out of this, without him. Will has space enough, he thinks, for this particular brand of love. It will simply take some getting used to.

"I will take you anywhere you'd like to go," Hannibal murmurs.

"Just away from here. Where we'll be safe."

"I will always keep you safe."

"And what if I disappoint you?"

"How do you think you could?"

"I don't know." He meets Hannibal's eyes, looking from him to Lotte's curls. "It's the only thing that's left to fear."

"Is it disappointing me you fear, Will, or merely my nature?"

"Not knowing if I would survive your disappointment," Will whispers. It makes him flinch that Hannibal seems to consider it. He knows Hannibal sees it.

"The only way you could disappoint me would be by separating us now."

Will licks his lips. "How could I?"

"If you felt threatened. If you thought you and Charlotte were in danger."

"And so you say you will always keep us safe."

"Even from me," Hannibal confirms. He puts a hand on Will's cheek.

"Somewhat of a double-edged sword for me," Will points out.

"And for me."

"Yes." Will leans into him. He feels his daughter stir once more, making a soft little noise. Soothing her with a hand, he looks at Hannibal plaintively. "Swear to me you'll guard her. Always. Swear to me she'll always be safe."

"With my last breath, Will, I promise you."

With a glance down at their interlocked fingers, Will nods. "All right."

Nothing else really matters but that, and his sweet girl, sleepily sitting up in his lap.

"Father," she whispers. "Hannibal?"

"Yes, love," Will murmurs.

"You're both here."

"Of course," Hannibal tells her gently.

"I like it when you're both here."

"My sentiments entirely." He smooths her ruffled hair as she looks up between them expectantly.

"What's for dinner?" she asks, brightly.

"Well, Miss Charlotte," Hannibal purrs, sounding quite satisfied, "tonight I've made us a cassoulet with new vegetables and some fine tender beef."

He glances at Will, who feels his own expression forced into resignedness by the weight of his skepticism. If Hannibal was expecting him to protest, now would be the moment.

"Sounds delicious," he mutters.

"It will be."

Will isn't even sure he's being disingenuous, or scathing when he says it. He sighs and squeezes Lotte.

"Come on then, Titch. Let's wash up for dinner."

Hannibal catches his hand when he follows Lotte out the door, stopping him in the doorway for a moment, letting her go down to wash her hands at the kitchen sink. Will doesn't even flinch; doesn't feel even a frisson of alarm.

"I realise my love is unasked for," Hannibal murmurs.

"Is mine?" Will says.

"I wouldn't have presumed," Hannibal replies, eyes going liquid, and in turn, Will's own sting. He's trapped, he knows, between the devil and the deep blue sea. And the devil is leaning close, to softly kiss unresisting lips.

"You killed Edith Jameson because she beat a child," Will says under his breath, mind whirling, "and the woman at the orphanage for the same, I assume."

"She would starve the children as punishment," Hannibal elaborates, faintly. Both of them are looking out for Lotte returning.

Will digests that for a moment, heart aching. "What about the man in the abandoned ship?"

"I witnessed him beat a street urchin for not shining his shoes adequately."

"And the others – how did you know?"

"I have my ways." His chin raises, brooking no argument, and Will holds his gaze for as long as he can before it becomes too much.

"I understand," he breathes, quietly. The words slip out almost without his say-so. Their fingers brush.

"If you truly wish me to leave," Hannibal says then, tone deferent, and sincere, "if that is how you want me to show my devotion, I will go."

"It is not," Will whispers back. "We will go together." He slips his hand into Hannibal's then. "You said we'd be a family."

"We will be."

"You were insistent about us moving to the country. I assume you have somewhere we can go already."

"I know of a place, yes. Tomorrow, we'll go."

"Tomorrow," Will echoes. "What about Missus Cheswick?"

"Lady Verger owes you a favour, does she not?" Hannibal shrugs barely. "I’m sure she has the budget for more staff."

"You’ve thought of everything."

"I even have the number of a property agent." He’s smiling without smiling. Will can’t quite manage his own, yet.

"Margot Verger," Hannibal continues, then. "Killed her brother, didn't she?" 

At Will's tight-lipped silence, he continues. "And they called you. You helped them cover it up. You know the difference between pleasure and sport. Foxes, and chickens."

Will swallows: undeniably, he does. Down the landing, he hears the sound of Lotte emerging from the wash room. He doesn't let go of Hannibal's hand.

She seems incredibly pleased to see them. Will doesn't say anything - doesn't know what to say.

"Come along," Hannibal says, tone brisk, "the meat will get cold."

Of course, that's the thing to say. Will controls a dizzy urge to laugh and goes to Lotte to escort her downstairs.

They sit at the table, and Hannibal emerges immaculate from the kitchen, taking up a knife at the table to carve the roast. Will pours them both a glass of wine. Across the table, Lotte beams at him.

"You look like you feel better, father."

"Perhaps a bit," he murmurs. He winks at her: she doesn't deserve to feel unmoored by his turmoil, or by the state of his health.

Hannibal serves their plates and sit down. They fall into quiet as they eat. It's unfortunately delicious. Will sees Hannibal watching him eat.

He watches him back. Hannibal eats with the same grace and sense of enjoyment as he does everything. But Will knows that he's _satisfied_ , all his perfect plans come to fruition. It's like a tangible thread between them.

"Thank you, Hannibal," he murmurs.

"It's my pleasure to serve you," Hannibal replies.

"You don't serve us. You're part of our family."

Lotte looks up at that and smiles. "We're like the Vergers and Miss Bloom now."

Will studies her intently. He's never been sure how many facets of that particular situation she's noticed. Once again, she effortlessly exceeds all his expectations.

Hannibal is looking at her with fondness as well. "Though you have markedly better manners than Marshall."

"Well, he's still a baby," she says.

Will chuckles at that. "He's four years younger than you, Titch."

"Seems more," she muses.

Hannibal chuckles as well. "Spoken like any older child."

The thought seems to make her pause. "If we move to the country, I won't see them..."

"Perhaps one day they will be able to visit, or we them," Will soothes. She starts to look upset, but Will lets her process it: she will. And their safety, after all, is paramount. "We'll work it all out eventually, sweet girl," he tells her.

She must hear the love and regret in his voice. "All right, Father." She smiles to let him know she won't get upset.

It's impossible to keep from reaching for her small hand. He clasps it over the white tablecloth. "The important thing is that we're all safe and together."

He glances at Hannibal, who says, "Indeed," before he raises his glass. "In fact, I propose a toast to just that. To our family, and being safe, together."

Lotte gamely raises her water glass to be tapped, and Will follows a bit more slowly. "Cheers," he murmurs.

Through the window, lightning illuminates them for a moment, followed by a distant roll of thunder. The storm outside is moving away.


	16. Epilogue

Will is never precisely sure how Hannibal managed to disengage him from Jack Crawford so quickly and completely. There's a letter of doctor's recommendations, and the words ‘legal implications’, he knows that much.

His own escape tactics had also been remarkably easy to action. Margot had agreed all too readily to employ Missus Cheswick, and Will fancied when he’d told her of his plans to retire to the country that she’d been secretly grateful to be left behind – away from Hannibal. 

They sell the London house mostly furnished, Will knows that too, because the beautiful bastide house that Hannibal takes them to in the South of France already has nearly everything they need, and it's smaller besides. But not much smaller - there are still three of them, and a certain amount of privacy is… desirable.

Lotte is quiet at first while she adjusts, but the surrounding countryside is idyllic, and a couple of walks to the pond and the large, fenced yard around it - ideal for chickens - soon steer her towards pleased.

The property is cut off from any main roads by a long dirt track, hemmed by farmland and vineyards, lush green and straw yellow and twisted, impressionist trees. The regular appearance of stray cats and the occasional dog delights Lotte, as well as the opportunity to use her French at the market on weekends.

She and Hannibal continue their routine of lessons, with somewhat more natural science replacing trips to the museum: there’s a small stream running behind the house, in the basin of the shallow valley, shaded by Mediterranean pines.

Weekends, though, are family time. Today, they've packed a picnic and brought it to the stream, where Lotte is sailing paper boats while Will and Hannibal lounge on a blanket. They’re close, but not too close, Will with a book wedged open on his hip, Hannibal’s drawing supplies carefully laid to one side while he deals with lunch.

Since their departure from London, Will notices that all of them have begun to dress in lighter colours, beige and tan and cream, no suit jackets and ties while they’re at home – just shirts and waistcoats. Hannibal looks particularly at home here in the sun, his olive skin quickly taking on hues of gold, his hair silvering without its usual careful application of pomade.

"Your medicine, Will," Hannibal murmurs, handing him a capful of clear liquid. When Will pulls a face, he eyes him meaningfully. "You’re too old for a spoonful of sugar, my love."

Will hadn't been sure initially if he trusted Hannibal's experimental treatment, but he had been insistent. And Will is feeling _markedly_ better. The headaches, the hallucinations… they've nearly disappeared. And he feels clearer, too. Like he can breathe again. Like things make more sense.

He tips it back, and washes the taste away with some tea. When he lowers the cup, he sees Hannibal is regarding him with no small amount of satisfaction.

"You look well."

"Thank you," Will murmurs, accepting a glass of chilled water with his plate of beautifully prepared food. "I feel much better."

"I'm very relieved to hear it." He reaches out to caress Will's cheek.

It doesn't startle him now. He glances over at Lotte, playing contentedly, and leans in to brush their lips together.

"Will," Hannibal's voice is warm. Will stays close. Things have been rather too fraught for intimacy as of late. Will has been wrestling with all the knowledge he has of Hannibal. He still is, to a degree. But this feels simple enough. And Hannibal looks so _pleased_.

Will goes back to his lunch, but Hannibal's gaze remains warm and steady. Overhead, Will sees a blackbird hopping amongst the branches. It tilts its head at them, fixing them with one black eye. Will looks back at Hannibal, who is regarding him with a similar steady darkness.

"Thank you for lunch," Will murmurs.

"It is my pleasure, my love." He gives Will another warm once over. "Regardless of you feeling better, you must keep up with your rest, Will. I think it's making the world of difference."

"I have been trying."

"Are your dreams still troubling you?"

"No," Will murmurs. "There have not been many, of late."

"So why don't you want to sleep?"

"It's so quiet here," Will replies.

"That's the idea."

"It takes some getting used to."

"Is that the only thing that takes getting used to?" Hannibal replies quietly.

Will quietly sighs. "No."

"Do you wish to?" Hannibal murmurs.

"Of course I do." He turns his eyes on Hannibal, as eloquently as he can. "Help me," he whispers.

"How can I help you?" He sounds genuinely desirous.

"Make this feel like home."

"It doesn't already? Why not, Will?"

Will looks down at his hands. "You know why."

"Have I sullied you? _'Out, damn spot'_?"

"You know as well as I that I already bore the stain."

Hannibal bends and kisses his palm. "I see no stain. I see a being unrivaled in his perfection."

"Except, perhaps, by you, Doctor. Practically perfect in every way."

"Modestly, Will, I must disagree."

"Hannibal," Will scolds softly.

"Will." His is much more adoring. Will closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling. His cheeks pinken. He wishes he were more disconcerted. But he's not; Hannibal's proximity only feels right. "Shall we teach Lotte to fish, Will?" Hannibal diverts.

"We'd have to return to the house for tackle," Will murmurs. "It might be best to wait until after lunch?"

"It might be best to wait until tomorrow, as it will be her nap time this afternoon," Hannibal reminds. "And I believe we agreed you and I would rest, as well."

Will licks his lips. "Hannibal -" his face feels hot, and he's not sure if that was meant as a suggestion or not.

But he just smiles guilelessly at Will, passing him another serving of meat before calling Lotte for lunch. She comes and sits beside Will, taking her plate and eating quickly and neatly. She seems entirely at ease, something Will has rarely seen in her, shoulders getting brown and her cheeks freckled. She smiles when he tucks an errant curl back into her braid.

"Are you well, darling?"

She nods. "My boats are getting better, Father. Did you see?"

"I thought they looked marvellous. Shall we all make one and have a race?"

"Perhaps," she says seriously.

Will smiles at her fondly. "Bet I can win."

"Whoever has the best boat shall win," she contradicts him.

Hannibal just chuckles. "You're quite right, Lotte." He opens his satchel and pulls out three loose sheets of drawing paper. "Here, show me your finest ship."

Obligingly, she demonstrates the folds, and both of them make their own copies, adhering closely to her rather strict instructions without making eye contact. Then they finish their lunch at Will's chiding. He packs the plates back into the basket before herding his family back down to the stream to race. Lotte beats them both and takes an energetic victory lap, then falls fast asleep on the sofa by the fire as soon as they return to the house.

Flicking a blanket neatly out over her, Will listens to Hannibal rinsing the picnicware in the kitchen. He steps over to the doorway to watch.

He looks prim even just in his shirt sleeves. The country hasn't softened his propriety much. But other things, somewhat, such as the smile he offers Will.

"Hello Doctor."

"Hello, Will." He sets the last glass on the sink edge and dries his hands. "Time for your nap, as well, I think."

"Is it?"

"Doctor's orders."

"Oh, I see," Will murmurs. "Then I shall obey."

"It's the sensible thing to do."

"Then ought you take one as well?"

"If that's what you'd like, Will."

They have yet to share a bedroom here. Will is all too aware of it. "Follow me, then," he murmurs.

Smilingly, Hannibal obliges. The stairs in their little house are steep, the sizeable and modern bedrooms in a long row under the eaves, a great library and music room at the back of the house, all gold wood and leather armchairs. It always smells faintly of thatch up here, but Will finds it strangely comforting, even as he walks slowly down the landing corridor to his own room.

Hannibal follows obediently behind. Will hears him close the door behind them, even so. He throws the latch, as well. Will doesn't let it make him nervous. They have an understanding, after all.

Silently, and with great satisfaction evident in his expression, Hannibal moves toward Will and starts to unbutton his waistcoat. He doesn't ask why today; he doesn't ask anything at all. Just silently strips it off his shoulders and start on his braces.

It's easy enough work to undress each other, when they're both working together. Will is a little slower, more cautious. But in the light of day, everything about Hannibal is a distraction.

"Hannibal," he says, nearly a plea for understanding, or convincing.

He gets strong arms closing around him. "Will," Hannibal gentles softly, "do you still harbour reservations about my commitment to you?"

Does he? _Could_ he, after all this?

"No," he whispers, "no, Hannibal."

"That's good."

Will nods, and lets him close the gap between them and kiss him. It's different than being the one to start it. It feels somehow more real. Less like something he's imagined, at any rate.

He grasps at his shoulders gently at the thought. Hannibal's hands slide down his spine. "Will," he whispers, their lips brushing.

"Yes?" he shivers a bit.

"May I touch you?"

Will nods mutely. He wants it more than he can name. Wants that feeling only Hannibal can conjure in him.

"Please," he whispers.

Hannibal doesn't wait for more. He cups Will's ribs and steers him back to the modest four poster, easing Will down onto the pristine sheets. They smell of lavender and sunlight and Will takes a deep breath as he reaches up. Hannibal's hair feels like silk. His eyes are wide and dark, everything about him lean and golden against the pale ceiling beams as he inspects Will in turn. He kisses his palm, then bows to press his lips to his chest.

Will takes a deep breath. "Hannibal," he sighs softly.

"Just let me," Hannibal murmurs back. He kisses Will after he nods. It's a long, slow press of lips, while his hands mold Will's flanks.

Shoulders slowly lowering, Will cups his cheeks with a low noise. Hannibal’s mouth is like a brand, and he's so gentle it's almost lethal. It's like he's blind and exploring Will with his other senses, teeth and tongue and creeping fingers. But it feels better than it even ought.

Will inhales sharply at a slight nip, just enough to remind him of sharp teeth. Stabbing beaks and claws. It makes him feel even more like treasure, scavenged and hidden away here in their nest.

He pulls him up at the thought and kisses him again. Hannibal comes willingly, climbing up to bracket his body with hands and knees. He lets Will at the fasten of his trousers, pushing them down around his hips. The evidence of his desire springs forth from the fabric as soon as it loosens. Will curls a hand around him, savouring his heat.

"Look at you," he whispers.

"Mindless before you," Hannibal agrees.

"Never that. Just… eager."

"I'm both."

"I doubt that very much, Doctor," he whispers.

"Let me show you."

Will pauses, then nods and stretches out, hands still by his shoulders. Smiling, Hannibal shifts smoothly down between his knees. Will would have lost his grasp on him anyway, but he carefully keeps his hands still.

Hannibal works Will out of his own trousers carefully. The cooler air of the bedroom washes over him. Will shivers involuntarily, then he groans when Hannibal slowly takes him into his mouth. His thighs tense, jaw dropping. It takes everything he has to hold still.

"Hannibal -" he hisses it through his teeth.

But it does no good. At least, not if he actually wanted Hannibal to stop. He's not sure he does. No, he really doesn't, but he wants more besides, and the driving, slick motions of his mouth are nearly a guaranteed way of ensuring Will won’t last.

"Hannibal," he pants again, "stop."

He pulls back immediately, eyes black. Will sits up to kiss him again, a nearly brutal crush of mouths. He lets himself grab this time. Steer and hold. Silky hair in between his fingers, silky skin between them.

"Hannibal," Will breathes, "I can't wait."

"Try, my darling. For me. I won't leave you unsatisfied."

"I want you now." He bares his teeth as he says it.

Hannibal kisses the snarl. "How do you want me?"

Will makes a soft sound. "Inside."

"Inside you." Hannibal noses under his ear.

"Please," he asks pointedly, though he does tip his head to the side for Hannibal, lets him kiss gently.

Hannibal takes his time about it. It has Will shivery in seconds. His hands trail up and down Will's flanks in time, just lightly. When his teeth graze, Will gasps. He's not afraid, not really, but it feels very like it. On the razor's edge. He has to trust Hannibal to keep him safe. It's unfortunately easy. He's never in his adult life felt so cherished. Nor in his childhood.

It hurts to acknowledge it. Hurts down deep in his core. Hurts even more that Hannibal would be the creature to alleviate it. This otherworldly presence that has found him, _claimed_ him. Bared its teeth to those who spurned him.

He feels carried off on a wave of impossibility. The thought makes him clutch Hannibal tighter. And Hannibal kisses him again, long and lingering.

"Now," Will demands softly. He reaches blindly to his bedside table. The oil from the house has made the trip here, somehow. He knows how, but he can't even spare the energy to glare at his companion. He just hands it over.

Moving deftly, Hannibal slicks his fingers and drapes himself on the mattress at Will’s side, coaxing his thigh up over his own.

"Here, let me take care of you."

It’s difficult, no matter how silly he feels, for Will to complain when he feels the sudden press of two slick fingers exactly where he wants them. He groans weakly into Hannibal’s mouth as he works them slowly inside, holding onto him. "Thank you," he whispers.

"The pleasure is all mine, Will."

"Not all," Will breathes, cutting off with a moan at another surge of the fingers.

Hannibal hums softly in acknowledgment. He kisses softly at Will's neck, the flutter of his pulse. He’s picking up a rhythm, more lazily teasing than preparing in any way, searching for that bundle of nerves inside Will that feels like _fire._ When he finds it, his fingers press deeper, faster, and Will hisses against a surge of pleasure. It goes on until he’s completely hard, cock already starting to leak onto his belly in a clear strand. Will needs _more._

"Now," he pleads. And Hannibal moves, without further hesitation, pulling Will gently up onto his knees, too. He shifts behind Will where they're knelt then, lips brushing his neck and one hand on his hip as he spreads more of the slick over himself.

Then, finally, he's pressing inside, fuller, hotter than fingers. Better than anything Will has ever felt. He tips his head back against Hannibal’s shoulder with a groan.

Their positioning means Will has to rely on him almost entirely for support, and it occurs to him with a rogue burst of laughter that it's fitting. Hannibal makes a questioning noise, and Will just lets himself go. _Fine, I'm yours. Hold me, take me._

He tips himself back and lets himself sink down fully; gasps at the deep press of Hannibal inside. Deeper than anything but Will's own thoughts. He feels like he's making so much noise, while behind him Hannibal is calm and gentle. It's only when Hannibal pulls him close, back to chest, that he feels his deep breaths and realises their thundering pulses are keeping in time. Hannibal rocks, and Will tips his head back against his shoulder and silently exults in the feeling. Then, not so silently.

Hannibal gently muffles the noise with a hand over his mouth. He lips at Will's ear, murmuring his name. "Beautiful boy," he strokes up his chest. "So lovely, so unique."

"Not like you," Will hisses.

"No one is like me," Hannibal murmurs. "No one needs to be."

He lets Will twist enough to face him; touch his jaw. "No one is like you?" he repeats.

"No one should be like me."

"Hannibal," Will murmurs.

"Hush, Will," Hannibal cups his throat gently and sighs. He's still inside him, though he's slowed for now.

"Hannibal," Will pleads softly, "you’re all right-?"

"I’m perfect."

"Then don't stop."

"My darling. Of course not." He kisses Will's neck again. Will has stopped cringing at the thought of teeth. It's only heat he can feel now.

When his hips roll, Hannibal rolls to meet him. It cracks like thunder through his skull. He gasps again, and they're in motion again, skin slapping and breaths fast. Hannibal's arms are tight around him, and Will presses back eagerly into the embrace. Their hands clasp.

He feels like they've merged, somehow. Will doesn't ever want to untangle. He wants to let Hannibal spool through every part of him. Wants to feel the seams where they're bound together. He thinks they're everywhere. A strange toy found in an abandoned house, two dolls stitched together, face to face.

He keens, and Hannibal's hands sweep up and down his chest. He's moving faster into Will, slick sounds making their way out from between where their bodies join. Tremors race up and down Will's limbs.

"Hannibal," he groans softly.

"Whenever you like, my love. I know what you need."

"More, faster, please god-"

And he doesn't need to say any more. The hands on him tighten. Hannibal loops his arms so his hands are braced on Will's shoulders and they're flush chest to spine and hip to hip, the only space opening up that from Hannibal's sharp thrusts. His face presses into Will's nape. Will can feel the smear of his mouth, his teeth and breath. He's like a live wire wrapped around him.

"God," Will breathes, "fuck-" More swear words shake out of him as Hannibal nips the back of his neck, still thrusting. The sort of language Hannibal would normally find offensive. But Will grew up on the docks, even if he's moved on. Besides, Hannibal doesn't voice any objections now, curling a hand around to grip Will's shaft and stroke slick and fast.

The lightning curls tighter, setting his veins afire. Outside, he hears the start of rain. The breeze creeps through the window, wrapping them both with the scent of wet leaves. It had been so sunny before, down by the river.

"Do you always bring the rain?" Will pants, nearly mindless with the coming pleasure.

"Only since knowing you," Hannibal whispers, "it used to be snow."

Will keens. Impossible to imagine snow with all this heat. "I love you," he says, not bothering to hide how much that hurts to admit.

"Will," Hannibal whispers in his ear.

Will can't speak. He's feeling too much, he thinks he might peel open with the force of it. And Hannibal hasn't said anything but his name. But - everything he feels had been in that single syllable, Will _knows_ it, and it rushes through him like a flood. His eyes are stinging; he has to look up to keep them from filling.

Hannibal's grip on him falters, and Will hisses - _no_. "Don't stop."

It comes out sounding both angry and desperate. Hannibal answers in kind. "Let me _feel_."

Will doesn't know how he can't; he's shaking and close, breathless with it. He just has to… let go.

It hurts to let Hannibal have it, in a way. But it feels right. Feels _fitting_ , when it finally pours out of him. He cries out, nails digging in and thighs trembling, tears running. He feels it quake through Hannibal too and breathes his name again, like a prayer.

Will answers in kind, turns and kisses him while Hannibal keeps rolling his hips, both of them shivering and oversensitive. Hannibal slows gradually, softening into Will's kiss. When he smears his face against Will’s nape, he feels damp there too.

He's so careful with him, even now. Eventually he softens and slips free, but they don't move, just lean on one another. Will is still breathing hard, feeling raw, like he's been flayed to expose some hidden stratum. He clutches Hannibal's hand, breathing hard. He feels breath against his neck, only just steadying.

"Tell me," he whispers, peering back at him.

"I love you too," Hannibal breathes into his skin. "I know nothing for certain but that, Will. Please believe me."

"I do," Will whispers. He lets himself sag back into his arms and straighten his legs, Hannibal’s long thighs either side of his own. He lets him pull the covers over them both and cradle him close, resting back against the headboard. Finally he just asks, "Where does it go from here?"

"I think it could stay like this," Hannibal muses, stroking his hair. "Lotte seems happy, and I think you like it here too."

"We're safe here?"

"We are."

"Then we can stay," Will whispers. "Unless we all decide to leave together."

"Is that what you want?"

"Yes," Will says. " _Together_."

"We'll give it some time." Hannibal kisses his hand. "When you want to leave, we'll figure it out."

Will trusts him. Despite everything. He turns his face into his chest with a sigh. Hannibal's hand settles into his hair. "We should get dressed," Will murmurs.

"In just a moment."

"Lotte might come up."

"I did latch the door," Hannibal says with some amusement.

Will sighs in defeat, settling. "Just another moment, then."

"Of course." Hannibal kisses the top of his head. "And then I'll make dinner."

"May I help?" Will murmurs sleepily.

"You may. You both may if you like."

"I'm sure Lotte would," Will murmurs, dozy now.

Lips touch his brow. "Sleep a while, beloved."

So Will does. Hannibal gently rouses him a while later, and both of them wash and dress, Hannibal leaving Will doing the latter as he heads down to wake Lotte. Will hears her musical voice as he descends the stairs, asking something about bread.

"The dough is proving, I made it this morning, though I do think it tasted markedly better when you made it into the shape of a dog last time."

She laughs. "Father thought so."

"He is so often right about these things," Hannibal praises. They both shoot him an assessing look.

"I prefer most things if they look like dogs," Will muses.

"What about an actual dog?" his daughter asks, clearly attempting to not sound excited by the prospect.

Will looks at Hannibal, eyebrows raised. Hannibal's expression remains placid. "I don't see why not."

Lotte's eyes swivel back to him.

"Very well," Will says, simply. Just seeing her smile makes his face move into one of his own. Looking from one of them to the other, Will wonders what Hannibal sees. A father, and a daughter - a family. And they're his as much as he is theirs. "We'll go into the town next weekend, and find a suitable place."

"What if it's raining again?" Lotte says thoughtfully, wrinkling her little upturned nose.

"We'll take an umbrella," Will laughs.

"I always do," Hannibal says with the bare hint of a smile, his gaze warm and dark and pleased, "but I suspect the weather will hold. Come along," he tells them both then, "it's time to make dinner."

Not their first, and certainly not the last; a cooperative affair. While Will peels potatoes, Hannibal watches Lotte carefully butcher his bread. She looks quite inexpressibly proud of herself, and so does he. Will's heart, though fragile, feels dangerously full. Swollen like a summer cloudbank promising rain.

He looks out of the window, watching the birds skip amongst the tree branches beyond. If there are rather a lot of them, well, he's seen stranger things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We really hope you enjoyed this story and want to offer our heartfelt thanks to everyone who has shared, commented, bookmarked and left kudos, it really makes all the difference to us as creators and is so appreciated. 
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